


Gravity

by thegingerbatch (WendyBird)



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Anal, Angst, COMPLETE!, Fingering, First Kiss, First Time, Friends to Lovers, Hand Jobs, M/M, Minor Character Death, Oral Sex, Post-Reichenbach, ReunionFic, Sexual Tension, Slow Build, Torture of the non-sexual variety, Wandering sexuality, blowjob
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-10-09
Updated: 2013-01-12
Packaged: 2017-11-15 22:48:14
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 13
Words: 63,162
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/532628
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WendyBird/pseuds/thegingerbatch
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>On the three year anniversary of Sherlock's death, John finds something unusual in his flat. He shouldn't be so thrilled to be finally going mad. But is he? Oh god, yes.  This work is for fan enjoyment only. Please do not share on other media without permission.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Overture: For the First Time

**Author's Note:**

> This fic is inspired by The Script's album "Science and Faith," which is clearly referencing Sherlock and John, right? It's not exactly a songfic, but each chapter takes its name from one of the songs on the album. First chapter is a flashback. Everything else is Post-Reichenbach. 
> 
> I'm my own beta and Brit-picker...I do alright, but pretty pretty please point out anything you notice!
> 
> I do not own BBC Sherlock or any of the characters therein. I don't make any money off of this. All songs or lyrics mentioned belong to The Script and Sony Entertainment.

_We’re smiling but we’re close to tears_  
_Even after all these years_  
_We just now get the feeling_  
_That we’re meeting for the first time_  
________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

**Overture: John**

 

 _I’m a high-functioning sociopath. Do your research._

John has always fancied himself an open-minded sort of chap, but Sherlock’s words give him pause. He’s familiar with the term, of course, though disorders of the brain have never been his particular cup of tea. But the brief definition he remembers from uni is hardly a medical diagnosis, so he follows the advice he knows Anderson won’t, and does his research. One should know these things about one’s flatmates—shouldn’t one?

 _Charming. Manipulative. Entitled. Demonstrate a marked lack of empathy._ Well, yes. But he knew that within a few hours of meeting him, didn’t he? The bloody man left him at a crime scene halfway across the city without so much as a goodbye-here’s-half-a-cab-fare-home.

 _Compulsive need for excitement and risk-taking, a need to live life on the edge._ That one actually seemed a bit interesting, until John had to shoot a man dead just to keep the lanky git from offing himself in some sort of suicide game.

 _Show love, happiness, and affection only when it suits their ends. Have no capacity for true emotional attachment._ For a while, this one rings just as true. John defends himself against it, doesn’t let Sherlock lie. When Sherlock introduces John as a friend, John corrects him: “Colleague.” 

Because John realised early on—right around the time Sherlock cured his limp with a lunatic race across half of London—that he was bound to the maniac, for better or worse. But he won’t let it become something that it’s not, something that it can’t be. Sherlock isn’t his friend. Not really. John is a means to an end. He’s not sure _what_ end—but Sherlock is the one who used the term sociopath, and surely he wouldn’t use it if it weren’t accurate.

John slips up a few times, finds himself thinking of Sherlock as almost human. But Sherlock is quick to remind him: “Heroes don’t exist, John, and if they did, I wouldn’t be one of them.”

So when they are standing at the pool, John wrapped in enough explosives to take out a city block, John doesn’t expect Sherlock to care. Jim, this Moriarty fellow, who is madder than twelve Sherlocks and a bag of monkeys, this man who kidnapped him and wired him with Semtex and painted a laser sight over his heart, this is really the same man who he’s been living with for the last few months. Moriarty and Sherlock, just two sides of the same coin, both using John Watson for their own amusement.

“I will burn the heart out of you,” says Moriarty, and John spares a moment to inwardly roll his eyes. He has a vision of Sherlock flopping down on the couch, huffily drawing his dressing gown around him. Quite the dramatic pair, these two. 

“I’ve been reliably informed that I don’t have one,” Sherlock answers coolly. Hell, the man puts ice to shame. Beneath a layer of terror at the thought of a billion pieces of Dr. John Watson lying scattered about a darkened pool, John himself is still annoyed by the showmanship of it all.

“But we both know,” Moriarty sighs, “that’s not quite true.”

Maybe it’s the madman’s tone, or maybe it’s the way Sherlock’s eyes flick to John—almost imperceptible, so quick John can’t be positive it’s not his overstressed mind playing tricks on him. Maybe it’s the moment where he sees—where he _imagines_ he sees—pity and sorrow and loss reflected in those grey depths. Somehow, after months of believing the man is some sort of organic computer running purely on electricity, tea, and nervous energy, John sees the human being underneath. And maybe it’s not real, but if Sherlock is faking it, he ought to quit detecting now and go win himself a bloody BAFTA. 

He can’t process it all in the moment, but days later, when he replays that evening, John recalls the panic in Sherlock’s voice as he strips him of the explosive-laden vest, remembers the bumbling, awkward body language as Sherlock tries to thank him for attempting, yet again, to save his life. John reviews his research, but he can’t fit them together, the Sherlock he saw that night, and the sociopath incapable of forming emotional attachment. 

Sherlock is not infallible, John reminds himself. He was at least a little bit wrong about Harry, wasn’t he? Maybe, John thinks, just maybe, Sherlock is also a little bit wrong about himself.

***

“We’re not a couple.” John has said it so many times in so many ways that now he wonders who he’s trying to convince. 

Adler’s reply is immediate and condescending. “Yes, you are.” Her red, red lips curling just the right way at the edges—half coy smile, half disappointed frown. And surely that’s proof enough that she’s wrong. If he isn’t straight, why can’t he seem to look away from those lips?

Of course, she’s a professional. Every inch of her is pre-conceived, planned. Tailored. She is an advert, designed to make people look, to make them want. John’s heart wrenches a little in his chest, imagining what Sherlock will do when he learns that she’s alive. It isn’t fair, her flirting with him. John isn’t sure what experience, if any, Sherlock has had with sex, but he knows this woman isn’t offering to love him. Not that he’d begrudge his friend a good shag, but…

John’s gut tells him that Sherlock knows all of the practical, academic knowledge of sex, of love, and very little of its application. And the fact remains that while Sherlock is possessed of a massive ego, he is capable of being simultaneously incredibly insecure. This is one of those rare areas where his intellect cannot help him, and Sherlock deserves to have someone who isn’t going to take advantage of that.

Or maybe it’s just that, despite her admittedly ample physical assets, he doesn’t much like this Adler woman. 

“For the record,” he says, managing not to grit his teeth, “if anyone out there still cares, I’m not actually gay.”

A perfectly groomed eyebrow lifts in challenge. “Well, I am.”

The pause that follows her statement is brief, but it uncoils between them like a spider’s thread, delicate and dangerous. John isn’t sure what his face is doing. Hopefully it’s tactfully blank. His brain is busy with the implications of her words and absolutely can’t be buggered to control his facial expressions.

She offers him a small smile, tinged with an understanding that both irritates and unsettles him. “Look at us both.”

***

After that, he stops denying it. Not saying it’s true, because it’s not. But denying it suddenly seems a waste of breath and an insult to them both. 

Because they’re not a couple. But they’re not just friends, either. Well, John can hardly say what Sherlock thinks, given that at any given moment there is only about a sixty percent chance that Sherlock even knows whether John is in the flat or not. But John knows that Sherlock is more than a friend to him. No friendship in his entire lifetime has consumed him this way. 

Sherlock is a child; he needs constant looking after. John exhausts himself making sure the man eats and sleeps and keeps out of the immediate path of speeding bullets. Sherlock throws tantrums that John must diffuse, bruises egos and leaves John to soothe them, treads on toes that John must bandage and splint. Sherlock sees things in a way no one else does, sees things as they are, sees through them and around them and under them, and it’s breathtaking and John will never get tired of standing by and watching and feeling more than a little foolish. Sherlock can’t get enough of his own voice but craves someone else’s praise; John felt it, the first time he blurted out his amazement and Sherlock’s whole being curled toward him like a flower feeling its first rays of sun.

Sherlock is impossible and obnoxious and fantastic and frustrating, and everything about him makes John feel more like _John_. How could anyone ever get enough of that?

So when people assume they’re together, those people are not exactly wrong. It’s just that a word hasn’t quite been invented yet for all the ways that Sherlock Holmes is inside and around and okay, _with_ John Watson.

Which is why he’s not exactly shocked to find himself running through the streets of London after an absolutely daft and ill-advised and _bloody brilliant_ escape from police custody, handcuffed to his best friend. And he’s not all that surprised when Sherlock reaches out for him, commanding, “Take my hand.” 

He doesn’t hesitate. A far away part of his mind makes a joke, because he’d rather be funny than be honest with himself about just why it’s so easy for him to trust this man, to obey him. 

He tells himself his rapid breathing is just from all the running. That sudden spike in blood pressure when Sherlock’s hand closes around his, that’s the rush of adrenaline, pushing him forward. It’s perfectly natural and normal and not at all something that terrifies him. 

Still, when they duck into an alleyway and pause to catch their breath, John slips his hand free and grips Sherlock’s sleeve instead. Sherlock doesn’t seem to notice the change. 

John forces himself to take a few deep breaths. So far today, he’s punched a man, he’s gotten himself arrested, and now he’s become a fugitive. His evening has been eventful enough, he decides, without the added angst of a possible sexuality crisis.

And anyway, Sherlock is already off again. John follows in his wake, pulled by more than just handcuffs, pulled the way a ship is pulled toward the centre of a maelstrom. It’s elemental, this thing between them, and John can’t fight it any more than he can fight gravity: Sherlock is, quite simply, the most massive thing in John’s galaxy, and John’s only choice is to orbit him for as long as he can, before gravity wins and he finally comes crashing down.

 

**Overture: Sherlock**

 

“I’ve just met a friend of yours.”

“A friend?” Sherlock can’t conceal his surprise.

“An enemy.”

“Oh.” Yes, that does make more sense. “Which one?”

John is smiling a bit. “Your archenemy, according to him.”

Mycroft, then. Sherlock very purposefully does not sigh. He really must get more entertaining enemies. Mycroft and his army of intelligence gathering drones are so boring.

“Oh,” is all he says. “Did he offer you money to spy on me?”

“Yes.”

Sherlock knows the answer to his next question before he asks it, but better to get it over with. John is a military man, and military, in Sherlock’s experience, values obedience over instinct, rank and file over free thought. While he doubts John was intimidated by Mycroft, he surely gave way before his big brother’s obvious authority. That is the first lesson a soldier learns, is it not? Instinct and logic will tell him to avoid the exploding buildings, to run away from the hail of bullets. Only an officer’s orders and a sense of duty keep him advancing the front line. 

Sherlock works to keep his voice casual, free of disappointment. “Did you take it?”

John pauses. Looks at him. Finally says, “No.”

For a moment, Sherlock considers that he may be lying. But no— _maintains eye contact, body language doesn’t flinch away, no visible signs of elevated pulse or body temperature_ —he's telling the truth. 

It takes all of three seconds for Sherlock to summarily delete twenty-three percent of his heretofore knowledge of Dr. John Watson and begin frantically, joyously redecorating the man’s room in his mind palace.

He’ll need the room now, Sherlock is sure of it: the room in the palace and the room in the flat. Sherlock can’t decide what excites him more: that John chose him over his brother, or that, against all odds, he has managed to _surprise_ him. It is such a very rare thing for Sherlock Holmes to be surprised.

Again, he keeps his voice light, adding a touch of condescension to mask his delight. “Pity,” he says. “We could’ve split the fee. Next time think it through.”

***

“The bullet they just dug out of the wall is from a handgun.” _Looks like a .40 caliber. Might be a .357, can’t say until we’ve had a better look. Common to law enforcement, but too widely available to narrow it down for certain._

“A kill shot like that, over that distance, from that sort of weapon—you’re looking for a crack shot.” _More than a crack shot. The bullet passed within inches of me—either the shooter didn’t care who he hit or he was positive he wouldn’t miss._

“His hands mustn’t have shaken at all, so clearly he’s acclimatised to violence.” _Not an amateur, not likely even just law enforcement, not with that sort of CV. Military, maybe._

“He didn’t fire until I was in immediate danger, so obviously has a strong moral principle.” _Unusual combination: not a violent man, but a man of violence._

Sherlock is scanning the crowd as he tells Lestrade, “You’re looking for someone probably with a history of military service and nerves of steel…”

His gaze lands on John, standing nonchalantly beside a squad car. John sees him looking and offers him a nod.

Oh. _Oh._

Sherlock forces himself to look away, makes what he’s quite sure is a visible effort to keep his face neutral. “You know what?” he says, giving Lestrade the briefest of smiles. “Ignore me.”

John. God, how had he not seen it?

He’s vaguely aware that Lestrade is protesting. “Ignore all of that,” Sherlock repeats. “It’s just the shock talking.” He lifts the corner of the orange blanket still draped over his shoulders, already moving away, moving toward John, drawn to him the way he is always drawn to a puzzle, to a curiosity, to something unique.

Not a violent man, but a man of violence. _John. How very unboring of you._

Helooks up as Sherlock approaches, mumbles something about the case, but Sherlock isn’t listening; he’s noting the powder burns just faintly visible on the man’s hands, which he has clasped behind his back. The set of his shoulders almost completely disguises the bulge under his jacket where his shirt meets his jeans. 

_Clever. Not clever enough for me, of course not, but clever._

“Good shot,” he says.

“Yes.” John blinks, his eyes wide and far too innocent to be sincere. “Yes, must’ve been, from that window.”

Better if Sherlock gets him away now—John is not gifted in the art of deceit. If Lestrade’s men ever think to question him, John will fold like a collapsible chair. What sort of man can kill in cold blood but can’t lie to cover it up? What sort of man saves your life and doesn’t tell you? John could be hesitant because he’s worried about getting caught—but he doesn’t seem terribly worried, and if he were, why would he still be here? Frightened men, guilty men, they run. John is neither of those things.

 _Strong moral principle_ , Sherlock remembers. John didn’t kill a man for him because he wanted something in return. John killed a man because he thought it was the right thing to do.

Sherlock smiles. He rather likes this one.

***

It is weeks later when John walks out on him for the first time. Sherlock is in a snit because John—perfectly ordinary, idiotic John—called him ignorant. _Spectacularly_ ignorant, even. All because he didn’t know that the Sun went around the Earth…or, wait, no. Earth goes around the Sun, that’s it. Hell.

When Sherlock tries to explain that this information is not important, John laughs at him. He’s subtle about it; the laugh is more incredulous than cruel, but honestly, how does he expect Sherlock is going to respond? So when he swirls his dressing gown around his body like a vampire’s cape and flings himself onto the couch, he’s fully expecting that John will apologise—and he will forgive him, after a while, with magnanimous flair.

Instead, John leaves. “Where are you going?” Sherlock is appalled at the undercurrent of panic that he can’t manage to keep out of his voice.

“Out,” is the only reply.

Sherlock is accustomed to people leaving him. What he’s not accustomed to, what he has only experienced twice in his life, in fact, is wanting someone to stay. 

The first time he wanted this he was two years old: _The garden wall has a young oak growing at its base, and it makes a perfectly adequate mizzenmast. Captain Holmes has never climbed this mast before, but there are mutters of mutiny among the crew, and if he is to silence them, he must remind his men that he is as good a sailor as any of them, as willing to risk his own life as he is to risk theirs._

_The fall is only about four feet, and wounds his pride more than anything—especially since it’s Mycroft who finds him—but he huddles in his mother’s arms, hiccoughing his way through passionate sobs. But there’s a party tonight, and mother can’t hold him long—soon enough he’s handed off to Cordelia, the horrid nanny who can’t read long words or wield a pirate sword, so what good is she to anyone? He turns off his tears before she can see them._

The second time he wanted someone to stay he was twenty-two: _Victor looks sleek in his overcoat, his eyes alight as he rounds on Sherlock in the doorway. “You really want to know why?” he snarls, and of course Sherlock does; he wants to know everything. “Because,” Victor tells him, “you’re just too much.”_

_Sherlock is reaching for him and stops, recoiling as though Victor has physically struck him. He is floundering, trying to stay angry, because he can feel the emptiness that’s underneath gaping at his feet. An invisible string connects his body to Victor’s, and every step Victor takes away from him drags him closer to the edge of that abyss._

_“Too much?” he repeats, feeling foolish. He narrows his eyes. “Apparently I’m not nearly enough, if you need half the first-years as well.”_

_Victor doesn’t even have the grace to blush. He steps out into the rain, looking beautiful and cold and cruel. “Good luck to you, Sherlock Holmes. Good luck finding anyone who wants to deal with…”—his gesture takes in all of Sherlock—“…with_ that _.”_

After that, Sherlock was quite sure he was done wanting anyone at all in his life for very long. So he is more than a little alarmed at the things happening in his chest as he rushes to the window and watches John disappear into the night. Mrs. Hudson’s arrival allows him to put on a great show of being bored, right up until the flat across the street explodes, providing a much needed distraction from these—these bloody _feelings_.

He has almost convinced himself he didn’t feel them at all, in fact, when John shows up again the next morning. Again, his heart does something rather acrobatic inside his chest, and he must keep very still to prevent anyone from seeing how much he’d actually like to get up and _hug_ John. Instead he notes his rumpled clothing and stiff neck and—somewhat rudely—asks him how the Li-lo was. The poor man must be frustrated; Sarah’s still not letting him share her bed after all these weeks.

“Sofa, Sherlock. It was the sofa,” says Mycroft. The bastard—but ah, Sherlock has spotted it now, the red patch of skin where John’s cheek was pressed against imitation leather. Not the sort of fabric one finds on a Li-lo. 

“Yes, of course,” he says, the distasteful necessity of agreeing with his brother almost overshadowed by the satisfying look of incredulity on John’s face. He plucks impishly at the strings of his violin.

“Business seems to be booming since you and he became pals,” Mycroft says to John. Sherlock pretends not to listen. “What’s he like to live with? Hellish, I imagine.” 

Sherlock won’t look at him. He can’t look at him. His heart is frozen, half fury at his brother for knowing exactly which strings to tug at, half fear of what John will say next.

The look he gives Mycroft is closed. Careful. “I’m never bored,” he says.

_Simple. Direct. Honest without telling the truth. Won’t let me think he’s sorry, but more importantly, won’t give Mycroft anything to use against me. Bless you, John._

Under the guise of irritating Mycroft until the cake-gobbling git makes his exit, Sherlock adds another bit of data to his file on John Watson.

If Sherlock pushes, John will push back. He may even leave, if Sherlock pushes hard enough. But there is loyalty there, and a sense of something else, something built of arguments and embarrassments and Sherlock’s perpetual need for someone to filter his intentions from his actions. 

Because of these things, these revelations that are only between them, Sherlock knows—he is almost certain—that even if John leaves, he will always come back.  
***


	2. Nothing

_I’m swearing if I go there now_  
_I can change your mind, turn it all around…_  
_I wanted words but all I heard was nothing._  
________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

John first notices the skull on Wednesday. If he’s honest, he mostly moves about his flat like a ghost. Sherlock would have said—but no, it won’t do any good to think about that. The point is, he doesn’t always pay attention to his surroundings. Seeing but not observing has become a way of life since…well, since. 

In any case, he is reasonably sure the skull was not there Tuesday night. He is absolutely sure it wasn’t there on Monday, when he alphabetised the medical journals on that shelf. But there it sits, grinning sardonically from where it’s nestled between _Annals of the Rheumatic Diseases_ and _Archives of Disease in Childhood._

He lets out a slow, quivering breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding. He thinks about touching it, but decides he likes his sanity intact, thank you very much, and that touching an object that shouldn’t be there is not the best way to keep the cracks in his psyche from fracturing further.

He makes himself a cup of tea and turns on the telly, refusing to glance at the bookshelf for the rest of the evening.

***

“How are you holding up?”

“Fine. Yeah. I’ve been well.”

“John.”

He looks up at her, eyes so deeply blue they are nearly black. She is always asking questions to which she already knows the answer. He supposes that’s her job—but surely a therapist shouldn’t be so obvious about it. A muscle in his jaw twitches, and he realises his teeth are clenched around the words she wants to hear.

“Yesterday was three years,” she says. The cap of her pen has been gnawed on. For a moment, John contemplates taking her apart. He wishes he could see her the way Sher—well, he wishes he could really see her. What scars are buried in her heart? What old wounds that he could rip open, fill with poison, stitch up again? How would she like it, her personal tragedies strewn about the room like last year’s Christmas presents, forever on display but no longer interesting. Dull.

He clears his throat instead. “Was it? I’ve stopped keeping track.” His smile is polite and endearing and not at all reminiscent of a cornered panther baring its teeth in challenge.

“You know it was.”

Should he tell her about the skull? 

“Yes, well. Three years. Seems about time to think about something else, doesn’t it?”

Something else, like the things that have not abandoned him, the things that have not left a gaping void— _no. No, John. You dare not go that way._ He has Mary, for Christ’s sake, and she’s _wonderful_ , and he has work, and he has nights out at the pub with Lestrade, and on top of all that he has the curious case of the Apparating skull—

_No, John. No, no, no. That way lies the abyss._

She is still watching him, waiting for everything he cannot say, when the hour runs out.

***

Thursday evening he has dinner with Mary at her flat in Kensington. He makes risotto and she makes casual conversation. After eight months together, they don’t have to try anymore to fit into each other’s space—it just happens. She moves around him in the kitchen, grabbing plates and pouring wine, and the spaces between them are not awkward, but easy. Comfortable. 

He keeps telling himself that as he ignores her sidelong glances and smiles at her. She knows about yesterday, knows its significance, but she can’t decide if she should ask or not. John can see her weighing the choice in her mind. She’s much easier to read than his therapist. She is responding to every noise he makes, watching every movement. He feels like he can hear each thought, like they are written in her eyes and the lines of her body.

He gulps his wine too quickly, and the corner of her mouth tightens: _Are you drinking to forget, John?_ He laughs at a joke she’s made, and her shoulders relax: _If you can laugh like that, you must be all right._ He tells her about the patient he saw yesterday who tried to explain how he’d contracted genital herpes by sharing a drinking straw, then touching his mouth, then touching his cock. Her laughter is bright but her eyes are dark: _Yesterday, John. Do you want to talk about yesterday? You ought to talk about it._

After dinner they are on the sofa. She is leaning into him, his arm around her shoulders, his hand resting comfortably near her right breast. He is contemplating closing the distance, turning her face to his and losing himself in her. She can make him forget about the delusion of a silly old skull on a cheap bookshelf.

“John, I know you’re trying not to talk about it.”

He tenses. 

“It’s not good for you to keep it in,” she says. Her voice is soft. Her hand on his leg is gentle, feeling for his reaction, reassuring him that she’s there. He needs her gentleness, needs her care. He wonders how little he can say and still keep her there.

That’s not how it’s supposed to be; he’s sure of that. He doesn’t deserve her. But he does want her, and so far it’s been enough.

“I, uh—” He coughs. “Look, it’s not that easy.”

She looks up at him. Her eyes are brown. Not the drab, lifeless brown of his flat, but the warm brown of soil drenched with sun.

“I know.” Her fingers squeeze his leg. “Did you go to the grave?”

John’s eyelids flutter closed and he lets a long breath out through his nose. “No.”

Mary sits up, her eyebrows knit together. “Why not? I thought you—”

“I just—I thought maybe—It’s time to move on, yeah?”

Emotions chase each other ‘round and ‘round her face. Concern in the tightened corners of her eyes, sadness and surprise in the raised eyebrows, and there, in the slightly parted lips—hope.

“Really, John?” She seems to realise how wistful it sounds. Schooling her voice, she says, “I mean, do you think that’s best? Do you think—do you think you can? He was so important to you…”

John doesn’t trust himself to respond to that, so he just nods. How can he be failing everyone he’s ever cared about? Failing Sherlock by letting go, failing Mary by holding on. He wonders if excessive guilt can bring on hallucinations. Why else would the skull appear on Wednesday, of all days? The anniversary of Sherlock’s death, and the first time John does not go to his grave. It’s the right thing to do, moving on. So why does it taste like betrayal, sharp and bitter in the back of his throat?

Mary sees his face and takes pity. She kisses him, soft at first, and then harder. She crawls into his lap and her hands slide down his arms and he lets her take him somewhere else for a while.

***

On Friday, a sleek black sedan pulls up beside him as he walks home from the clinic. Mycroft has an injured agent that needs John’s attention. John spends eight hours scrubbing tarmac out of a gaping stomach wound, placing various organs back into their proper places and stitching the whole lot closed again. Eventually, the mess on the operating table looks almost like a proper human being again. 

It’s nearly half past six the next morning when John is deposited back at his flat. He is brutally tired, his leg and shoulder are aching, and his stomach is turning itself inside out with hunger.

In short, he is blissfully alive.

He half-fries, half-scrambles four eggs. He washes them down with a cup of black coffee and stumbles into bed.

It’s not until he wakes at three o’clock that afternoon that he notices the black cow skull mounted on the wall above his television, headphones perched absurdly over its horns.

***  
John sits in his armchair, clasping his tea with both hands in his lap. His eyes are fixed on the cow skull. He blinks rapidly, even though he knows it’s foolish. He has already gone through all the options: optical hallucinations, there’s a limited number of causes for those. He’s not taking drugs, so that’s out. The mildest possible cause on the list is sleep deprivation. Most nights, the nightmares keep him from sleeping soundly. The nights he’s with Mary are better; he still dreams, but when he starts awake, his vision obscured by images of blood pooling on pavement, he finds her there beside him, grounds himself, and sleep returns. The nights when Mycroft calls on him, the nights of blood and sweat and cheating death, those nights he sleeps like a baby. And there’s enough of those nights to be getting on with.

But if it’s not sleep deprivation, the options grow rapidly more terrifying. Epilepsy. Brain tumor. Schizophrenia. John takes a deep breath and makes himself sip his tea. He doesn’t feel crazy. But what does crazy feel like? He could be loony as a March hare, and how would he know it?

He stands slowly, placing his tea mug on the table beside him. Maybe he’s not crazy. After all, logically, he knows that these items, these decorations don’t belong here. The human skull on the bookshelf, the cow skull on the wall, these things belong to the morbidly technicolor circus that was Baker Street, not here in his sadly practical little flat with the brown walls and the brown bed and false wood furniture.

John reaches out and touches the skull. Its surface is slick under his sweaty fingers. Slick and cool and very, very real. Tactile hallucinations? Is that a thing? He can’t seem to remember. 

There is no transition between John Watson quietly stroking a cow skull that should not be on his wall and John Watson sagging against said wall, gasping his way through huge, broken sobs. One moment he is one man, the next moment he is the other. 

***

“John! Wonderful to hear from you, dearie.”

“Right. You too. Sorry it’s been a while.”

He knows Mrs. Hudson’s sad smile so well he can hear it through the phone. 

“That’s alright, dear. I know it’s hard for you—”

“Have you…” He doesn’t mean to interrupt, but the more he lets her talk, the more the talk will turn to things he’d rather not discuss. “Have you been by here at all? In the last week, I mean?”

“What? What do you mean, here?”

“My flat, I mean.”

“Goodness no, John. Why would I go there?”

“I know. Sorry. I know it’s silly, I just saw something…” No. He can’t have her worrying about him. “I got some flowers,” he says instead. “There wasn’t a note, and I just thought maybe…maybe it was you.”

“Oh. Well, sorry to disappoint, dear. Perhaps you’ve got a secret admirer?”

He hopes his chuckle sounds genuine. “Yeah, probably. That’d be something, wouldn’t it? Don’t think Mary would like it much.”

She laughs. “No, I don’t imagine. Are you doing all right after Wednesday? I thought I’d see you at the cemetery, but I must have missed—”

“Yeah, sorry, Mrs. Hudson, that’s the door. I’ll ring later.”

John hangs up before his voice can betray him. The skull on the wall stares at him balefully. The skull on the shelf just grins.

***

He phones Lestrade because he’s the only one left to phone. And because if he’s going to talk about something strange, some mystery of Sherlockian proportions, it helps to talk about it with someone who knew the man, who at least grudgingly respected him.

“John?”

“Grab a drink tonight?”

“Not even a hello, then? Christ, John, it’s been weeks.”

“Sorry, hello. Grab a drink tonight?”

“You’re bloody persistent, I’ll give you that. What’s happened?”

“What makes you think something’s happened?”

“Really, John, in spite of everything Sherlock told you, I would hope you know by now I’m not actually an idiot.”

John laughs. It’s mostly genuine.

Lestrade says, “You don’t phone for ages—”

“I really am sorry—”

“—and now you’re so desperate for a chat your phone etiquette’s gone all to shit. Out with it.”

“Honestly, I’d rather say in person. Can you meet tonight or not?”

“Oh, fine then. I can be at the Swan in an hour.” 

“I’ll see you there.”

“Cheer—”

John rings off before he realises he forgot to say goodbye.

***

The pub isn’t usually so crowded, but it’s Saturday night. John finds Greg at the bar. Taking the stool beside him, John orders a pint and holds it between his hands, wondering how to start.

“How’s Mary?” Greg asks.

“Hmm? Oh, fine. She’s great, thanks.” 

Greg rolls his eyes. “Alright, so what _do_ you want to talk about?”

“Something happened on Wednesday.”

“Oh.” Greg’s eyes widen. “You went to the—”

“No,” John interrupts. “This happened at my flat.”

“You didn’t go to the—”

“I said I didn’t.”

“Right.” Lestrade shifts in his seat. “So what was it?”

John takes a deep breath. “You remember that skull that Sherlock used to own?”

Lestrade smiles. “Yeah. Christ. You should’ve seen him before he met you. Carried that thing around he did. Not all the time, but every now and again, you look up at a crime scene, and there he is. Like fucking Hamlet.”

John has a vision of the man, skull poised in hand, coat swirling around him dramatically. It should be ridiculous. It _is_ ridiculous. But it is also heart-wrenchingly, gut-twistingly _Sherlock_ , in a way that is so bittersweet he has to bite back a moan.

The smile he offers Greg is pained, but real. 

“So what about it?” Greg asks.

“When I got home from work on Wednesday, it was on my bookshelf.” John wonders if saying it out loud means admitting that he’s gone ‘round the bend. 

“What, you mean one like it? Who got it for you?”

“No, I mean the actual skull. Same one. Real human skull, not a fake.”

“Christ.”

“As for who put it there…I’m open to theories.”

“Mary have a key to your place?”

“Jesus, Greg. It wasn’t her. She hardly knows any of the details of my life with Sherlock, and she just—she just wouldn’t.”

“Sorry. I didn’t mean to—we always start with the loved ones, that’s all. Not likely a stranger popped around to poke at old memories, is it?”

“I don’t know. I honestly don’t know. I’m still not convinced I’m not imagining it.”

“Well—are you?”

“There’s more.”

“Christ.”

“I was out all night on a call for Mycroft. Got in early this morning, slept ‘till afternoon. When I woke up, that bloody awful cow skull was on my wall.”

“Cow skull?”

“The one from the sitting room at 221B.”

Lestrade’s grimace might be amusing, if they were discussing something less insane. “The one with the headphones? The hell was that about, anyway?”

“As if I knew.” John drinks. “That’s not the point. The point is, I’m either so mental or so riddled with tumors that I’m redecorating my flat with Sherlock’s things _in my imagination_ , or…”

“Or what?”

John waves a hand vaguely. “Or someone’s actually putting the things there.”

Greg blows out a breath, looking as thoroughly mindfucked as John feels. “Christ,” he says. He’s a far cry from an idiot, but the man could expand his vocabulary a bit.

They finish their drinks.

***

The glass in his hand is filled with scotch this time. A double, and he knows he shouldn’t, but he hasn’t got work tomorrow, and a pint with Lestrade is hardly going to get him as entirely pissed as he needs to be to deal with this.

He can’t avoid the obvious questions forever. He can make an appointment at the hospital next week, find out if something is seriously wrong with his brain. But he really ought to rule out the less savory option that someone he knows, someone who knew Sherlock, could actually be doing this to him.

He hasn’t spoken to Harry in weeks, and this is hardly her style. Besides, she was never inside 221B. How would she know about the skulls? He’d probably mentioned the one, the skull he’d replaced as Sherlock’s sounding board, but the cow skull? He and Sherlock had hardly even mentioned that one to each other.

Mycroft? He was clever enough, cruel enough to do it. But to what end? Drive John Watson mad, and what did he gain? John can’t see any sense to it.

Anderson? John almost laughs. Anderson and Donovan combined wouldn’t have the devious intelligence to pull this off. And their ire had been mostly directed at Sherlock anyway. The only emotion they had ever shown John Watson was pity. His stomach curdles.

So what then? If he believed in ghosts…

 _Oh yes_ , his mind whispers. _He could do it. It’s exactly his style, in fact. Innocent and vicious all at once. Subtle, manipulative, entirely devoid of empathy. One might even call it sociopathic._

John stares at the cow skull, and the cow skull stares back. Its voice in his head is chocolate dark and velvet smooth. _Surely you’ve not forgotten me, John? Errand boy for Mycroft now, but you were my John first, remember?_

The glass shatters against the wall before John realises he’s thrown it. He blinks. His hands are trembling. A bolt of pain shoots through his leg. His limp has never come back, not enough to warrant the return of the hated crutch, but the ache comes and goes. 

“Is it you, then?” His voice is too loud in the empty flat. _Stupid, John. Of course it’s empty. It’s empty and you’re alone._

“You selfish bastard, would you tell me if it was you? Would you, Sherl—” He chokes on the name, the word dissolving into a shuddering breath. 

***

Sunday morning, John wakes up in his armchair. He makes himself toast and coffee and washes the dishes before sweeping up the remnants of his shattered scotch glass and depositing them in the bin. He hesitates a moment, then crosses the room with swift, certain steps, grabs the skull from the bookshelf, and throws it in the bin as well. The cow skull is only hanging by a nail, so wrestling it off the wall is not as difficult as John imagined it would be. He wraps the headphone cord tightly around the skull and dumps the whole messy package unceremoniously into a plastic bag, to be taken out with the rest of the rubbish.

He is admiring his work, congratulating himself on not letting this alarming little development derail his efforts at normality, when he hears a scraping at his door.

He leans around the corner to see a piece of paper lying on the floor, for all the world as if someone has just pushed it through the crack under his front door. Should he be surprised? He doesn’t feel surprised. He feels nothing.

But as he reaches for the paper, he realises that’s not entirely true. There is a whole ocean of nothing in his chest, but like all oceans, it has a bottom. And that bottom is teeming with life, with a riot of emotions that are difficult to name. Excitement and anger and terror and loneliness and _oh god_ hope, hope so bright and fragile he’s afraid to breathe lest it break, shatter itself, shatter _him._

His fingers grasp the paper. He wonders, after he reads it, if he already knew what it said. He thinks he did, but after the magician reveals his trick, you always imagine you saw it all along. Hindsight is always right, and is always a lie.

He is still standing, staring, when the second piece of paper is pushed under the door. He almost laughs, because of course there’s a second piece. He picks it up and holds it by the first, marveling at how his hands refuse to tremble. The spidery handwriting sharpens in his vision, the rest of the room becoming vague, blurry, somehow less real. He reads them, these letters from the dead, side by side.

_Baker Street. Come at once if convenient._

_If inconvenient, come anyway._

John wrenches open the door, and the hallway is empty. There is a sound, fading, like impossibly long legs taking several stairs at a time. And outside his door, the scent of expensive shampoo and wet wool and tobacco. 

_Bastard._ John shouldn’t be giggling. His fingernails shouldn’t be digging into his palms hard enough to draw blood. He looks down at the papers, crumpled in his fists and stained with sweat. He shouldn’t be so thrilled to be finally losing his sanity.

But is he? As he grabs his coat, John Watson asks himself, is he really so ecstatic, so absolutely furiously chuffed to be racing headlong toward madness? Is this blind rage he feels building, is it really something he wants to explore?

And his answer is the only one he knows. 

_Oh god, yes._

***


	3. Dead Man Walking

_I hear the angels talking, talking, talking,_  
_Now I’m a dead man walking, walking, walking,_  
_I hear the angels talking, talking, talking,_  
_Now I’m a dead man_  
________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________ 

“How long has it been now?” A ribbon of smoke uncurls from the Woman’s lips as she speaks. She didn’t smoke when she was living in London—bad for business, tasting like an ashtray— but her clientele here is far less illustrious. For a woman who makes her living exploiting other people’s vices, she seems to deny herself most of her own. 

Sherlock is glad she’s picked up the habit. It makes the package of cigarettes in his breast pocket feel less indulgent. 

“How long since I left, you mean? It’ll be three years next month.”

“Since you left. Is that really how you think of it?”

“I suppose you’re going to tell me that’s unkind.”

She arches an eyebrow. “You already know it is. Don’t pretend with me, Sherlock Holmes.”

“Now that would be foolish. Can’t lie to a liar.”

“Quite the opposite, Mr. Holmes. Liars are the easiest to fool.”

His eyebrows draw together, his lips pursing thoughtfully around the filter of his cigarette. “And why is that?”

“Liars always assume everyone else is just like them. If you want to fool a liar, tell them the truth.”

His lips twist, but it’s not really a smile. “The truth, then.”

“You lied to the world, Mr. Holmes.” She flicks ash onto the pavement. Meets his gaze. “Oh, you had your reasons, and how very noble they were, indeed. But don’t pretend you were kind.”

“I won’t. Still, it’s hardly out of character, me being unkind.”

“Mmm.” 

“The work is almost done now, anyway. All of Moriarty’s agents save one have been…eliminated.”

The Woman’s cigarette pauses on its way to her lips. “And what then?”

“After I’ve dealt with Moran? I’ll go back, I suppose. Won’t that take the wind out of Mycroft’s sails.”

“Do you really think he’s still waiting for you?”

“Moran is a foxhound—he won’t stop until he’s got his fox or his master calls him off, and as the latter is hardly an option anymore, yes, I suppose he is still waiting. As for Mycroft, I’d hardly call it waiting, but—” 

She interrupts, the corners of her mouth turned down. “You know perfectly well I’m not talking about Jim’s lapdog or your big brother.” 

His breath catches, and he hides it behind a flippant gesture, blowing a long stream of smoke through his nose. Yes, he knows what she’s asking. In the gathering dark, the glow of his cigarette stutters through the air between them. A thousand quick retorts are on his tongue: _He’s probably just grateful to have a flat free of superfluous body parts._ Or: _Perhaps he’s improved his poetry enough to win himself a wife._

And: _Why wouldn’t he be waiting? What other choice does he have?_

Has he miscalculated? John is a constant—has been a constant since they met. Even in his exile, John is the fixed point around which he orbits. John doesn’t have to try, doesn’t have to be near him, doesn’t even have to know he’s alive; the man’s friendship is his anchor, and Sherlock has never thought about it as anything but permanent. 

He realises his silence is betraying his sudden doubt, and hates himself for letting her see it. Hates her for sowing the seed in the first place.

The Woman’s smile is wicked, with a hint of sadness underneath. “Poor John. How have you managed it, all these years? Lying to a man that honest?”

What if John is not a constant? What if John is a variable? For the space of exactly three heartbeats, he can feel the whole chemistry of their friendship dissolving in a chaos of broken bonds and shed electrons, can almost see the double-helix of their entwined lives unraveling itself before him.

Sherlock says nothing. Loudly.

“It’s a bit like kicking a kitten, really,” says the Woman, and her cigarette makes a red dot beside her mouth, punctuating the off-hand statement with just a hint of fire.

***

After the first time, he only went to the grave on the anniversary. John went more often, but Sherlock couldn’t risk being seen in the vicinity of London. Hard enough getting in and out once a year. But he needs it, needs to see that John remembers him, that John is still there. Otherwise all his errands elsewhere seem largely pointless. 

Which isn’t logical. Taking out Moriarty’s web of agents is anything but pointless. Sherlock is saving innocent lives, and more importantly, he’s protecting himself. How can ensuring one’s own survival be pointless? The fallacy bothers him, but he already knows the reason for it. 

John would call it sentiment; Sherlock calls it inconvenient. Out loud he calls it that, and if he smiles a bit to think of it, if a psychosomatic warmth spreads through his chest at the thought of John still caring, well…perhaps he is a bit human, after all.

On the third anniversary of his death, Sherlock Holmes stands in the cemetery where his tombstone rests and waits to see his friend. He is calm and collected as the sun begins to edge over the horizon and the fog swirls sluggishly around the hem of his coat. He is only the slightest bit concerned as the sky shifts from dove-grey to white-gold and the fog dissipates and there is still no figure beside his grave. 

John is a creature of habit, but trains run late. Even if he’s chosen a taxi this morning—not likely; if his East London flat is any indication, John’s trying to save money, and an Oyster card is cheaper—but even if he has, traffic is unpredictable. There are at least six perfectly legitimate reasons for John to be late. An accident, higher-than-average traffic congestion, oversleeping, illness, death, or… 

As the sun clears the horizon completely, the London sky takes on its more customary damp-cement shade, and his graveside remains wholly unvisited. Sherlock’s agitation ratchets up another notch. His six reasons narrow to three. Oversleeping wasn’t much of a reason anyway. John’s not prone to lie-ins, especially not on workdays.

Alteration in routine—why? Illness, death, or…

The third possibility is still hard to say, even to himself. John’s shift at the clinic will have started by now. He’ll have to come in the evening now, if he’s still planning on coming.

Of course he’s planning on coming. He’s John, he’s my John, and he always—

But he can’t even finish the thought, because it sounds like a lie. Damn the Woman and her insinuations. He sinks his chin into his scarf, flips up his coat collar, and turns away from his tombstone. 

Death is unlikely. Not impossible, but certainly not likely. Illness is a possibility, although it would have to be something rather dire to keep John from this appointment. Which leaves the last. Sherlock forces himself to acknowledge that John may be moving on. 

Panic is immediate, but expected, and Sherlock tries to quell his rising frustration. John can’t be forgetting, because if John is letting him go, who is left to hold onto him anymore? Sherlock feels carefully laid plans beginning to unravel, and he starts to weave the stray threads into something new. 

If John is a variable, the whole scenario must be rewritten. He is confident in this. Moran is still out there, and it will be a risk, returning before the job is done. But if he doesn’t come back now, is there a reason to come back at all? 

He needs to get to East London.

***

John’s flat is depressing. The shades are drawn, and the sunlight filtering through the drapes paints the sitting room an ocher-yellow. Sherlock has only been here once before, the night before he left London. He stood in John’s room as the doctor slept, considering waking him, admitting the lie, telling him not to worry. But Moriarty’s agents were still watching, and as the Woman had correctly observed, John is a terrible liar. His grief had to be genuine. 

Now he makes a slow circuit of the flat, his gloved fingers trailing over the detritus of John’s daily life, his sweeping gaze taking in the changes the last three years have wrought. A bloody shirt in the bedroom hamper is alarming—that certainly didn’t happen at the clinic. Molly had mentioned John was doing something for Mycroft—Sherlock allows himself to sneer at Mycroft’s audacity, using his John for his own ends—but she had been vague about the details. A cursory examination tells him the blood is not likely John’s—something medical, then. Patching up stray Secret Service agents, no doubt. It is very John Watson, he supposes, finding yet another way to serve queen and country.

John’s Sig Sauer is still in his bedside table drawer, cleaned and loaded. On top of the nightstand is something new: a photograph of John and a woman. This is one Sherlock does not recognise. Not surprising—women like John, and he likes them, and without the chaos of Sherlock in his life, it is almost a foregone conclusion that John should have a serious girlfriend. Still just a girlfriend, though—Molly would have mentioned if they were more. He also notes that there are no feminine touches to the décor of John’s flat, no extra toothbrush in the bathroom, no lacy underthings in the hamper that speak of a life truly shared. John spends his time at her flat, not the other way ‘round. He is a part of her life, but she is still only orbiting his. Interesting. 

Sherlock studies the photograph. John’s girlfriends have never concerned him much, beyond the fact that they distracted John from important cases and made him lose his patience with Sherlock rather more quickly than usual. But if this one is somehow responsible for John missing their appointment this morning, Sherlock has to know. 

_Blonde hair, brown eyes, pleasantly symmetrical facial features. Slim and small, she makes John feel taller standing beside him. Her earrings are real diamonds, two karat studs. The watch on John’s wrist is a Breitling. Not things John would purchase—he has neither the taste nor the pocketbook—so they came from her. The watch must have been for this past Christmas; John’s birthday would have fallen early in their relationship, too soon for lavish gifts. The earrings she bought for herself, or they were a gift from someone else—but no. Her face is turned to the camera, but her head is tilted toward John, her shoulder pressed into his arm. Her body language spells infatuation. She wouldn’t be wearing a gift from an ex-boyfriend on a night out with a man she clearly adores._

_Cut and quality of her dress are expensive. Taking it all together, she’s well-off; too young to have worked for the money—rich family, then, probably raised in West End public schools or boarding schools in France. A rich girl infatuated with a former Army doctor, so she appreciates more than money, likes John for his warmth and his inability to put himself before others. Probably does some kind of charitable work herself to relieve her guilt at feeling more privileged than others._

Sherlock wishes John were here to confirm his deductions. Most people assume that because he is arrogant and narcissistic he is also incapable of being grateful for flattery. The truth is, he’s lived most of his life with only his internal monologue to congratulate him on his own brilliance, and after eighteen months of John involuntarily blurting out praises when Sherlock gave vent to the whirlwind of his intellectual steam, he finds he desperately misses the affirmation. 

Sherlock sighs. In the photograph, John is smiling, and his happiness hurts Sherlock in a way he does not quite understand. But there is a tension there, also. John’s hand around the woman’s shoulder is tighter than it should be, as if he’s trying to convince her—convince himself?—he wants her there. 

_Don’t project_ , he reminds himself. _Merely observe_. Photographs are a poor way to study body language, capturing the moment but not the context. 

He shakes himself, tearing his mind away from the picture and refocusing on the task at hand. How can he re-enter John Watson’s life without causing him more damage than he already has? John is physically sound, but when it comes to empirical evidence regarding the effects of resurrected corpses on the psyche, there is, perhaps not surprisingly, very little data. 

Sherlock knows a mind most easily accepts new things when delivered in small doses, incorporated into the familiar. He reaches into the valise he’s brought with him. He made a quick trip to Baker Street to gather his supplies—thank God Mrs. Hudson has yet to completely clear out 221B; she’s gotten rid of his equipment and many of his books, but the stranger items, the more personal, she hasn’t yet touched. He’d thought of knocking on her door, announcing his return to her, but no, he would have to break it more gently to her, at her age.

Besides, John must be first. It shouldn’t matter—logically, the order in which he tells people he is not dead is not important in the least. But he knows he can’t trust logic in this instance. John is first.

He leaves his token on the bookshelf, disrupting the neatly organised medical journals. The alteration in the familiar pattern should draw John’s attention. The item itself should get him thinking. Sherlock will have to watch and wait, observe John’s reaction and determine his next step. 

He glances around the flat to make sure he has left no other traces of his presence, then hurries out the door. The skull on the bookshelf keeps watch over the sitting room, awaiting John’s return.

***

“Have you told John yet?”

Molly’s eyes are bright. They are in her cramped flat, a space Sherlock knows well after spending the first few weeks of his supposed death sleeping in her bed while he dealt with the international network of thugs that had taken up residence on Baker Street. Molly slept on the sofa, naturally. 

Molly has made tea—breakfast blend, which Sherlock sips politely even though he fervently wishes it were Earl Grey. And John says he has no decorum.

He shakes his head in answer to her question.

“Oh,” she says, deflating. “But you are going to?”

He fixes her with a look. Even Molly can’t misinterpret the expression for anything other than what it is meant to convey: _Of course, you idiot._

She wilts further under his disapproval. He can almost hear her brain casting about for a way to impress him. 

“I don’t think he went to the grave on Wednesday,” she says after a moment.

“And why is that?” He knows this is a bit cruel, but he only knows because John would have told him to stop. The knowledge is not enough to keep him from indulging. 

“Usually he comes by after. Not really to talk about you, but I think he likes to be around people who knew you. He’ll pop in, say hello, make chit-chat, and then he’s off again.”

“But not Wednesday.” Sherlock’s mind wanders from the conversation. John must have noticed the skull by now, but Sherlock hasn’t noted any change in his behavior. John must be in some kind of denial.

“No. Do you think that means he didn’t go?”

Sherlock needs to add more stimuli, provoke a response from John. He says to Molly, “He didn’t go.”

“Oh.” Another frown as she realises he already knew. 

Molly stares at the table for a few moments, turning her mug in her hands. When she speaks, her words are not what he expects.

“Why now, Sherlock?” She watches him. “After all this time, why does it have to be now?”

“You would rather I didn’t come back?”

“No! It’s not that, it’s not that at all. Just—why now? Something’s changed.”

Molly is good at reminding Sherlock that even a person of average intelligence is capable of observation and deduction. The problem is the average person only employs these skills, only _acquires_ them, with someone they care about, whereas Sherlock can’t turn these observations off. He reads strangers the way a woman reads her husband after forty years of marriage. The way Molly reads him.

He schools his face to stillness. “The job is almost finished. It just seems like time.”

“Almost finished. So not completely, then.” She leans forward imperceptibly, and for a moment she is not a doe-eyed schoolgirl with a crush—she is a terrier with a rat, intent on protecting her home, her master.

“Sherlock, you broke his heart. It’s taken him all this time to pick up the pieces. He likes this woman. Please don’t ruin it for him.”

His mouth is open, and he hides his astonishment by sipping her disgusting tea. Guilt ripples through him, unfamiliar and uncomfortable. He cannot meet her gaze.

After a moment, she moves away, and he is able to breathe again. She puts her mug in the sink and turns to pluck his from his hands.

“You don’t like it anyway,” she tells him when he tries to protest.

***

Sherlock follows John to Kensington on Thursday night, mentally lavishing himself with praise for being right about the woman’s obvious wealth. Molly had told him the woman’s name—Mary—but it was hardly important enough to warrant space in the memory palace, so the knowledge came and went at its leisure. Her flat is four floors up, and she and John stay inside the entire evening. No opportunity to study their body language, then. 

John doesn’t leave until nearly one o’clock in the morning. Sherlock ignores the flash of irritation that jolts through him as he notes John’s rumpled clothing, his hair sticking up in odd places, the silly grin that slides onto his face when he is not paying attention. But he takes heart at the knowledge that even on so late a night, when John has work the next day, he does not spend the night with her. John is happy with her, and clearly sated, but not content. Sherlock wonders if the woman has noticed. She’d have to be a fool not to, but then John has a habit of dating idiots.

Friday night is even more frustrating. Mycroft steals John away to god knows where, and Sherlock has to wait hours for him to return. He passes the time by leaving another trinket in John’s flat. Larger, a focal point of the room. John won’t be able to miss it.

Sherlock leaves as the black sedan pulls up, returning John from his late-night exploits. He pauses to note the look on John’s face: exhausted and exhilarated. Jealousy grips his chest with white-hot fingers. The only time he’s seen that look on John’s face is while they’re on a case, after a brush with death or a brilliant capture. He’d imagined—foolishly, he now realises—that he was the only one who could make John feel that way. It’s a feeling John needs, a feeling he thrives on, but if he’s learned to get that fix from something else—someone else…

Oh, yes. He has been gone far, far too long.

***

The flat beside John’s is empty, its occupant visiting his sister in Bristol for the weekend. The flat is a mirror-image of John’s, and Sherlock echoes John’s movements from the entryway to the kitchen. He pauses there, listening to the faint sounds of John preparing himself breakfast. Sherlock glances at the doorway—the sitting room wall is not visible from here, so he can’t hope John has seen his newest gift. 

John’s footsteps pad toward the bedroom, and Sherlock follows his path through the neighboring flat. They have to cut through the sitting room to reach the bedroom, but Sherlock hears no gasp of surprise, notes no hesitation in the rhythm of John’s steps. He still hasn’t seen the wall. 

The bedroom is on the opposite side of the flat, too far for Sherlock to hear clearly through the walls as John collapses into bed. A short time later he hears a faint rumbling that may be John’s snores or may be his imagination. Sherlock lays down on the sofa in the sitting room to wait.

He passes the hours examining the information he has collected about his last quarry. Colonel Sebastian Moran, high-ranking affiliate of the late Moriarty. Rumors connected the two as more than just business associates, but Sherlock hasn’t seen any evidence to confirm or refute the claims. 

News of Moriarty’s death spread quickly through his criminal network. The newspapers reported it officially as a suicide, but there was always the implication that Sherlock had been involved. At least it was one claim the newspapers didn’t have entirely wrong. Reactions among his associates had been varied: some simply faded back into the dark corners of their respective communities. Some seemed grateful to Sherlock for removing the competition. But a handful, a dangerous few, vowed revenge. Moran is the leader of that contingent.

A military man, Moran is calculating and careful. He enjoys violence, but he doesn't let his desire for cruelty get in the way of what is necessary—he won’t kill unless he is certain he can get away with it. This makes him difficult to goad. Moran clings to shadows, feels little need to boast. He doesn’t mind taking his time to ensure a job is done correctly.

Moran doesn’t know, as yet, that Sherlock is alive, but he suspects. He is too smart not to notice that the criminals suddenly meeting with various accidents are the same criminals who shared his loyalty to one James Moriarty. Once Sherlock makes his return public, Moran will come for him. It is up to Sherlock to anticipate his move and lay a trap for him. He has several ideas, but until the man is actually here—

A sound from John’s flat rouses Sherlock from his thoughts. John is awake. Footsteps, still heavy from sleep, shuffle their way into the sitting room. Pause. Has he seen it?

The footsteps retreat to the kitchen, and Sherlock bites back a curse. _Hell, John, even you can’t be this blind!_ A few moments later, and there is the sound of a kettle boiling. The footsteps return to the sitting room. There is a creak, a rustling of fabric as John sinks into his armchair.

Sherlock’s body is mimicking John’s movements again. This flat has no armchair, but Sherlock stands in the spot where it would be. He is facing the wall between this flat and John’s, the wall where he hung that hideous cow skull. John, in his flat, must be staring directly at it. What is he thinking? The silence from the other side of the wall is deafening.

Another creak as John rises from the chair. Sherlock tenses. John’s footsteps approach the wall, and Sherlock closes the distance. The detective puts his hand out against the wall, where he imagines John is reaching out to touch the skull. Sherlock feels the distance between them keenly; so close, and so far—a few inches of drywall and wiring, three years of silence and lies.

The first sob makes Sherlock jump, snatching his hand back from the wall as if burned. The sound crawls down his spine, down his throat, choking the air from his lungs. _No, John,_ he thinks. _No, I didn’t mean for it to hurt you!_ Which is true, but he can see now that no matter what his intentions, this is what he has been doing to John these last three years—hurting him. Saving him, yes. But also killing him.

Sherlock presses his forehead to the wall, his hands, as much of his lanky body as he can, as if he can embrace John through the wall. When John’s sobs finally subside, Sherlock pulls away, his fingers brushing across his cheeks. They come away damp.

***

Sherlock listens as John phones Mrs. Hudson. It’s the first time he’s heard John’s voice since…he’s astonished to realise he’s not sure. John puts on a fair show for his former landlady, but Sherlock hears the tension underneath. John lies to Mrs. Hudson about the reason for the call— _doesn’t want her to worry, thinks he’s going crazy_ —then lies again to get off the phone. The first lie is the John he knows, protecting someone he cares about from something unpleasant. The second lie is a different John. Avoiding something, running from something. Mrs. Hudson can be annoying, but John was never anything but patient with her. It is half a second before his brain supplies the reason. Of course. Mrs. Hudson wanted to talk about him. John doesn’t want to tell her he didn’t go to the cemetery. Doesn’t want to talk about Sherlock at all, it seems like.

Sherlock feels cold, and it has nothing to do with the temperature in the flat. 

The next call is for Lestrade. John sounds more normal, more familiar. He laughs, and it doesn’t sound like desperation. And—ah. It’s the first time, aside from the sobbing earlier, Sherlock hears John acknowledge that something odd is happening to him. Good. He needs to talk about it. Sherlock can’t restrain himself much longer. Now that he’s seen John, seen how close he’s come to moving on, it’s all that Sherlock can do not to beat down his door in his rush to re-insert himself into his life. 

Sherlock does not follow John when he leaves to meet Lestrade. He returns to Molly’s flat for the night. His next step is crucial—John is acknowledging what’s happening around him. Now he has to push him toward the right conclusion, reassure him that he’s not going mad, rekindle his belief. God, when did that belief fade? Sometime in the last year, Sherlock imagines, when belief became a hindrance instead of a help, an anchor weighing him down instead of a hope that buoyed him up. 

Tomorrow. Sherlock can give him until tomorrow, and then he’ll tell him. Not at his flat, no—more familiar ground. Somewhere he’d already half-expect to see Sherlock. Which means a return to Baker Street. Sherlock smiles. He already knows exactly how he’ll get John there.

***


	4. If You Ever Come Back

_Now they say I’m wasting my time_  
_Cause you’re never coming home_  
_But they used to say the world was flat_  
_And how wrong was that now?_  
____________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

 

John stands at the door to 221 Baker Street, back straight, heart racing. His hand is clenching and unclenching at his side. He thinks about schooling it to stillness and decides it’s not worth the effort. He has to release the manic energy building inside him somehow.

 _Christ, Watson. What are you doing here?_

He hesitates. What is he doing here? Chasing a ghost? Or worse, chasing a psychopath who knows where he lives, has broken into his flat at least twice, and has successfully lured him to what’s almost certain to be an empty building. He curses under his breath as he realises his gun is still in his bedside table drawer. _Oh, yes, excellent soldiering instincts._

But his hands are steady. He has to know where this leads.

He reaches for the doorknocker—and freezes. Underneath the pervasive soundtrack of city noises, just at the edge of hearing, someone is playing the violin. 

Cold sweat breaks out on his forehead, his palms. Every emotion he has ever known is clawing its way out of his chest, and his lungs are suddenly too small, his throat too narrow. He gasps for air, his leg giving way slightly as he catches himself on the door. He takes a few deep breaths. His eyes squeezed tightly shut, he somehow manages to clamp down on the storm inside him, wrestles it into a sleeper hold and waits until it has subsided to bind it, cast it into the darkest corner of his heart, and close the door firmly behind it. Emotion is no good here. 

The weakness slowly leaves his limbs as something else takes over. John opens his eyes. Squares his shoulders. _Sod this._ Whoever is in there, they are about to meet a very tense, very determined, and very angry John Watson.

The door is unlocked. Of course it is. When John steps inside the entryway, the music is louder. Louder, and definitely coming from upstairs. Something strong and sad and achingly lonely, but John doesn’t let it touch him. 

He glances at the door to 221A, but he’s certain Mrs. Hudson is out. Whoever planned this planned it carefully—no interruptions to interfere. The drama of it is not lost on John; it is, in fact, fueling his rage like a slow-burning campfire. He can’t shake the feeling that he is a puppet, only moving his limbs because someone behind the curtain is pulling his strings. He grips the banister and starts up the stairs. 

When he hits the stair that creaks, the music falters. It is less than a heartbeat, less than half a heartbeat, before it picks up again, but at least John knows he’s not imagining things. Imaginary violin players don’t pause when they hear you coming. 

The door to 221B is slightly ajar—an invitation. A curious feeling steals over John, one he has only had occasion to feel twice before. It’s the same feeling he had in Kandahar when a grenade sailed through the broken window of the storefront they’d set up as an emergency surgery, the same feeling he had as the red dot of a sniper rifle’s sight danced across his Semtex laden chest in a darkened pool. It is a sense of inevitability, a detachment from reality that leaves him empty and alert and rolling on instinct.

He watches his hand push the door open as if it belongs to someone else. His eyes take in the sitting room he hasn’t seen in years, and for a moment, it looks as though nothing has changed. His armchair and Sherlock’s facing each other to his left, the sofa to his right piled high with books and case files, the air glazed with the oily stink of whatever experiment is currently putrefying in the microwave…and a lean silhouette against the window, back turned, violin raised, bow drawing heavy notes from the delicate strings. 

John blinks, and the vision fades. The armchairs are gone. The sofa is there, but it’s now covered in an old sheet to ward off dust. The air is clear and tinged faintly with mothballs. But the figure at the window is unchanged. John’s heart skips one beat, then two, and then hurries to catch up, thudding in his chest like a machine gun’s chatter.

The man with the violin half turns, his eyes cast down, fingers still moving as he finishes his piece. John waits, mentally evaluating his body for signs that he may be having a stroke. The bow draws across the strings a final time, teasing the last note out into the air between them. The man sets the violin against the wall and studies the bow in his hand. 

“Mozart,” the man says, and the voice is the same, cool and rich and dark as ink. John’s arms come alive with gooseflesh, and he wishes his hands would tremble. He doesn’t know how else to release this growing tension. Soon it will reach the breaking point, and like an over-stressed fault line, John fears his body, his _heart_ , will simply shake itself to pieces. 

“Requiem Mass in D Minor,” says Sherlock— _oh God, is it? Is it really you?_ “When Mozart died, he left it unfinished.” Here, his gaze finally flicks upward to meet John’s, and there is no mistaking those eyes, green and luminous in the morning sun, the brown freckle in his right iris marking him like a fingerprint. 

His voice is softer as he adds, “I thought it was appropriate.”

John isn’t aware that he’s crossed the room. He’s not aware his fingers have curled into a fist, or that his arm has decided that fist belongs somewhere in the vicinity of Sherlock’s jaw. He is not aware of any of these things until a wave of pain reverberates through his knuckles, and suddenly he is massaging his shoulder while Sherlock stumbles back against the window, looking almost as shocked as John feels. A thin trickle of blood runs from the corner of his mouth.

At the sight of the blood, John snaps back into himself. Instinct abandons him, along with the steadfast resolve that had accompanied it. John’s knees buckle, and he reaches out for the only thing nearby, which just happens to be Sherlock, pulling them both to the ground as he tries to steady himself.

Sherlock lands heavily and John lands half on top of him, digging his fingers in harder than is strictly necessary. He wants to bruise the body beneath his hands, just to know it’s real. Sherlock’s arms are poised awkwardly on either side of John, one near his head, the other underneath him, ready to catch him if he falls further. The hand near his head twitches, like Sherlock wants to touch him but can’t. John hopes he doesn’t. He has no idea how he’ll react. He’s just as likely to tear his arm off as to burst into tears. 

“John, I—”

John shakes his head violently, fistfuls of Sherlock’s jacket sliding through his hands. “Don’t,” he manages to say through clenched teeth.

“But John—”

“Please. Shut up.” John’s head is suddenly too heavy for his neck, and he leans forward, resting it against Sherlock’s very firm, very warm, very alive chest. He can hear his heartbeat, a low, wild thrum under his ear. It’s surprisingly fast, given how calm the man seems to be. Sherlock’s scent is all around him, the peppermint and rosemary of his shampoo, and a clean, subtle earthiness that John recognises but can’t place, until he realises this is the smell of Sherlock’s skin, a smell he didn’t even know he knew. A hint of cigarette smoke clings to his breath, his clothing: the bastard is smoking again.

“Oh, god,” John whimpers. “You…”

Sherlock’s hand stops hovering and lands gently on John’s head. John doesn’t immediately attack, which is good. Instead, he closes his eyes and leans in to the touch. Sherlock’s fingertips pressed into his hair, Sherlock’s palm against his ear. Sherlock alive. Sherlock _here_. 

“Yes, John. I’m here.” As if he can read John’s mind. But then, he always could.

They are still like this for another moment, John’s arms and lungs and heart full of Sherlock, and then John becomes uncomfortably aware of the intimacy of the position. He pushes back, and Sherlock releases him immediately, as if John is something fragile, something Sherlock wants to touch but fears to break. 

John’s chest is heavy with a dull ache, equal parts worship and hatred of the phantom before him. 

“How…?” he starts to ask, but there are too many questions and not enough room on his tongue for all of them. 

“How did I fake my death? How did I defeat Moriarty?” Sherlock looks pleased with himself, managing to sound smug even tangled with his former flatmate in an awkward heap on the floor. “Oh, John, I have so much to tell—!”

“No.” John is actually rather proud of himself, how steady his voice is. The delight on Sherlock’s face crumples into confusion.

“But John, I really—”

“No,” John repeats, louder this time. “You don’t get to talk.”

“John, be reasonable.”

“God, you arrogant prick. Can’t just be quiet for five seconds, can you?”

Sherlock opens his mouth and then closes it stubbornly, pinching his full lips together and raising one eyebrow in challenge. John fights the urge to slap him.

“Be reasonable,” John mocks. “I’m looking at a sodding _corpse_.” The anger slips a bit, and he feels his voice crack on the last word. He draws in a deep, shuddering breath. One hand untangles itself from Sherlock’s jacket and reaches hesitantly for the other man’s face. Sherlock flinches, his tongue darting out to taste the blood that hand drew on its last visit to his face. 

John’s fingertips brush against Sherlock’s cheek, just a whisper of a touch. Sherlock’s eyes flutter closed. “But you’re not. A corpse, I mean,” John murmurs, wonder lacing itself through the heat in his voice. “How in the _actual_ hell, Sherlock…”

Again, that quivering sensation in his chest that John isn’t sure how to interpret: he’s either going to melt into a weeping puddle that would put a Jane Austen novel to shame, or he’s going to bite through the very next thing he sees. He pulls his hand back from Sherlock’s face, and the detective opens his eyes. John rocks back on his heels. He still doesn’t trust himself to stand. 

“When I jumped—” Sherlock begins, but John raises a hand to stop him.

“No. I don’t actually want you to tell me how,” John says.

Disappointment scrawls itself across the detective’s face, and John feels another flash of irritation. 

“Why not?” Only Sherlock, in a moment like this, would find a way to be petulant.

John sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose between his thumb and forefinger before answering. “Because you don’t get to use this—This isn’t a chance for you to show off.” He fixes Sherlock with a level gaze, the heat behind his eyes threatening to give way to tears. _Keep it together, Watson._ “Three—Christ, three years! It’s not impressive, Sherlock. It’s just cruel.” He takes another breath to steady himself. He gets up, making his way to the sheet-covered sofa before lowering himself down again, distancing himself from Sherlock. His back is straight. His hands grip his knees so hard the knuckles are white, keeping him from reaching for Sherlock again—to embrace him or to maim him, John isn’t sure.

“I don’t want to know how you did it,” he says softly. “What I want to know is, how could you?”

Sherlock picks himself up from the floor, adjusting his shirt with a sharp tug, buttoning his jacket. John fights another pang of familiarity, of exasperation. To anyone else, Sherlock’s primping would look aloof and uncaring. John sees it for what it is: a stall, a way for Sherlock to buy himself time to think. It doesn’t make it any less annoying—and _god_ , it feels good to be annoyed with him again. 

The effort of juggling so many conflicting emotions is making John dizzy. He feels adrift in a dark sea, caught between the depths of his hurt and the heights of his relief. He sways a bit in his seat, clinging to his anger to buoy him up. 

After a moment, Sherlock meets his gaze. “John.” He takes a step toward the sofa. John blinks, shakes his head almost imperceptibly, and Sherlock freezes. “John, I’m sorry.”

John weighs this. “No,” he decides, “you’re not.” Sherlock’s eyes widen. He looks—hurt, maybe? Surprised? John relents, sighing, “But at least you know you should be.” 

John hears the exhaustion in his own voice. He suddenly feels about a hundred years old, far too tired to hold on to the fury that is his only lifeline. He starts taking inventory, cataloguing the symptoms beginning to manifest as his body tries and fails to process this situation. There’s the dizziness, the sensation of vertigo like he’s stepped into an Escher painting and his world is not just upside down, but inside out as well. His palms are sweating, even pressed against the fabric of his trousers. And there’s the nausea; he finds himself wondering—somewhat absurdly—if it was really such a good idea to have that second helping of jam and toast this morning.

“John.” 

He wishes Sherlock would stop saying his name like that, like a child who’s just had his favourite toy taken away. The sofa cushions are pulling at him, inviting him to rest. And why not? He deserves a bit of a rest, surely…

“John!” Sherlock is above him. Wait, what? John shakes himself, realises his head has fallen back against the sofa cushions. Sherlock is next to him, over him, all around him, producing a flashlight from somewhere to shine in his eyes. John swats at him weakly.

“Go ‘way,” he mumbles. “M’fine.”

Sherlock lays the back of his hand against John’s forehead, and John fights the urge to snort. “You are most decidedly not fine,” says the detective. “Pupil response normal, you’re not having a stroke. Skin clammy, pulse elevated, blood pressure presumably low, that would explain the fainting—”

“—did _not_ faint. Just leave me alone.” 

“I think you’re in shock, John.”

John laughs breathily. “Oh, brilliant. Couldn’t have gotten that one on my own. Me with my ordinary, dull little doctor brain.”

Sherlock frowns, his face still taking up most of John’s field of vision. “I suppose I needn’t worry if you’re well enough to be cross.”

John shoves him, and Sherlock flops down heavily on the sofa beside him. “Needn’t worry at all. I’ve managed just fine on my own, you know.” John’s voice is thin, coming between shallow breaths. When he presses the heels of his hands into his eyes, they come away damp. 

“I am sorry I’ve upset you,” Sherlock says. “I thought if I eased you into the idea, it wouldn’t be so difficult for you to accept.”

John is momentarily thrown, floundering as he tries to figure out what in the hell Sherlock is talking about. When it clicks, it’s almost enough to make him angry again. “The skulls? You’re apologising for the _skulls_? Christ, Sherlock.”

“So they were a good idea, then? I thought they were.”

“I can’t honestly believe we’re having this conversation. No, in fact, I don’t think they were a good idea. I’ve spent the better part of week thinking I was going completely mad.” Sherlock’s face falls. John takes several quick breaths through his nose, trying to stay calm. 

“Perhaps I rushed it,” says Sherlock, and it might almost sound like an apology to someone else, but again, John hears it for what it is: just Sherlock revising his hypothesis. “But don’t you see? I was so eager to tell you—”

“Eager?” It’s John’s turn to interrupt. “No, Sherlock. Lying to me for three years is not eager. I don’t—I don’t even know what that is.”

Sherlock favours him with his most condescending groan, tangling his hands in his hair. “Ugh, John, you and your archaic notions of nobility. Lying was the only way, it was the whole point!”

The doctor’s eyebrows rise fractionally. “You’re insulting me now? Oh, fantastic, Sherlock. Just bloody great.”

Sherlock waves a dismissive hand, growing increasingly agitated. “I don’t understand why you’re pretending to be angry,” he complains, rising from the sofa to pace the room. 

“Sorry, what?” _God,_ John thinks, _death has somehow managed to make him even more obnoxious_. “ _Pretending?_ How the hell do you presume to tell me how I’m feeling?”

Not even looking at him, still striding back and forth across the room, Sherlock says, “Come now, John, three years is a long time, but don’t forget who you’re talking to. You _are_ angry; I misspoke. But you’re hardly just angry, that’s just all you want to let me see. Why?”

John realises his mouth is hanging open and quickly closes it, pursing his lips and glaring up at Sherlock.

“You won’t tell me?” There is a gleam in his eye, a mix of pure, devilish delight and subtle menace that John simultaneously loves and loathes. “Fine, I’ll tell you, then. You’ve been angry before, been surprised before, but I’ve only once seen you look like you might faint—at the pool after I removed the Semtex vest. Relief, then. You’re not weak, not fearful—the only thing that makes you unsteady is overwhelming _relief_. You are glad to see me, so glad, in fact, you hardly even know what to call it. You lash out, you hit, you touch, and then you withdraw—you need to know I’m real, you want to accept it, but accepting it means losing something. What are you afraid to lose? And don’t say your sanity, John, sanity is dreadfully tedious.”

John’s glare softens to bewilderment, his hands pressed together between his knees. He laughs a little, because he’s honestly not sure what else to do. Sherlock is watching him expectantly.

“Don’t think I’m going to tell you that was amazing,” John says, taking some comfort from the sullen glower Sherlock offers him. “I practically fell into your arms when I first walked in. Telling me I’m relieved is not exactly a brilliant deduction.”

“True. And yet your first instinct was to punch me in the face.”

“Again, not exactly a surprise.”

“No,” Sherlock agrees, “but it proves my point. You’re using anger to mask what you’re really feeling. Why are you afraid to say it?”

“To say what?”

Sherlock growls in frustration. “Hell, John! That you’re happy to see me!”

“Happy?” John’s lips purse again. “Right then. I won’t tell you I’m happy to see you because I don’t bloody well want you to know. Because there’s consequences, Sherlock. You don’t get to just pretend to die, show up one day like you haven’t done, and expect that everyone will be fine with it! I am not fine, Sherlock. I’m not okay. With this.”

“John, you know me. You know—”

“Yes, that’s how I know you don’t understand how _wrong_ this is.”

“—I wouldn’t do anything like this without a good reason.”

“A good reason?” Another incredulous laugh spills from John’s mouth. “There isn’t a good reason. Not for this. I…Sherlock, I _grieved_ for you. I spoke at the funeral, visited your grave every year—”

“Not every year,” Sherlock interrupts. 

There is an immediate, deafening silence. John can see on his face that Sherlock realises he’s said something terrible, but has no idea what. John is too appalled to feel sorry for him.

“Sorry,” John says, “you’ve been _watching_ me?” 

Sherlock is silent. “Of course you have,” John answers his own question, pushing himself to his feet. He is still unsteady, and Sherlock reaches out for him, but he recoils when he sees John's face.

John rights himself, refusing to look at the other man. “I have to go—I don’t know. Out. I need air.”

“John, you can’t just go, you have to—”

“Don’t tell me what I have to do.”

“Please, John. I need you.”

John laughs at this. The sound is harsh. It doesn’t sound like him, doesn’t feel like him, but he can’t stop it. “Right. Well, you’ve managed well enough the last three years. You can bloody well survive a little while longer.”

And John leaves, slamming the door behind him.

***

Mary answers her mobile by cooing, “Well, hello, sexy.” 

John presses the phone against his ear and closes his eyes. “Yeah. Hi.”

“John? Are you alright?”

“I’m fine, I just…” He trails off, uncertain how to begin, uncertain what he even wants to say. 

“John Watson, you are a singularly terrible liar.” 

And in spite of everything, John finds himself laughing ruefully, and only the slightest bit hysterically. “You’d think I’d have learned that by now.”

“So,” Mary prompts. “What’s going on? And don’t tell me you’re canceling our dinner tonight, I’ve already phoned ahead for a table.”

“I don’t—No, I mean, dinner should be, well…Look, something happened this morning.”

“God, what is it? Are you alright?”

“I’m fine. I mean, sort of. I just need to…Well, I need to talk about it. And I…I don’t know. I just rang up the first person I could think of.”

“Oh,” she says, and he hears a chill slip into her tone. 

_Stupid, John._ He backpedals furiously. “I mean, I’m glad it was you. Christ, Mary, I’m sorry. That came out all wrong. It’s been a hell of a morning. A hell of a week, actually.”

A pause. Mentally, John calls himself a variety of unflattering names. 

“Do you want to talk about it?” she finally asks. Still cool, but somewhat mollified.

“Yeah, I—I think I’d best do. Can you meet me?”

“Where are you?”

“Westminster.”

“Westminster? What on earth are you doing there?”

“I’m at Baker Street.”

“Oh. _Oh._ ” Her flicker of understanding is immediately followed by poorly concealed disappointment. “But John, you said you were—”

“I know what I said, Mary.” John works to keep frustration out of his voice. It’s not her he’s upset with. And anyway, she has every right to be disappointed. He closes his eyes, shutting out a memory of the hope etched on her face when he told her he was finally letting go of Sherlock. 

It takes effort to keep his voice neutral. “There’s a place nearby—Angelo’s. You know where it is?”

“I think you showed me, once. I can be there in…twenty minutes?”

“Right. Good. I mean, I wouldn’t ask if—”

“You never ask, John. I know it’s important.”

 _Damn you, John Watson. She’s so good to you, so good for you._ The ache in John’s chest deepens, expands, threatening to swallow him. She doesn’t deserve this. 

“I’ll see you in a bit, love,” she says, and rings off without waiting for him to respond.

He stands for a moment, phone still held to his ear. There was a time when she would have waited to see if he would say it back, that dangerous four-letter word that falls from her lips so easily. But John couldn’t, he can’t, he’s not sure he’ll ever be able, and he hates it.

He puts his phone back in his pocket and keeps walking. _Damn you_ , he thinks. _She doesn’t deserve this at all._

***

Angelo’s. Why the hell did he pick Angelo’s? _First thing that came to mind. And it was close._ Valid reasons, John supposes, but he’s still regretting the decision. 

Every table and chair, every friendly wink Angelo tips his way, stinks of his old life, and his nerves are stretched taut, fraying, threatening to snap under the sheer weight of so much _Sherlock._

Mary reaches across the table and touches his hand, making him jump. He realizes his breathing is too fast and too shallow, and he forces himself to draw in a proper lungful of air. 

“God, John,” she says. “You’re a mess.”

His eyebrows bunch together as he tilts his chin down, his stare admonishing her for stating the obvious. After everything he’s just told her, how can she even…What is he supposed to be, if not a mess?

Her brown eyes blaze. “Don’t look at me like that, John Watson. I heard every word you said, and yes, it’s shocking, but…look at you.”

“Shocking?” His voice is several octaves too high. He clears his throat. “Is that all you think it is? He was dead, Mary. He was dead and I mourned him—and it was all a lie.”

“I know, I just...” Her face softens a bit as she watches him, and she seems to change what she was about to say. Her fingers brush his hand, soothing him. “What did you do? When you saw him, I mean.”

“I hit him.”

“John!” Her fingertips stop stroking and press into his skin instead.

“And then I…I don’t know. It’s a bit blurry, really.”

“You hit him?” She’s disappointed. He shouldn’t be surprised—she’s always been opposed to violence of any kind. 

“Yes. Just once, Mary. I didn’t beat the man bloody.” Her fingers loosen a little. “Not that he didn’t deserve it,” he adds.

“It’s just not like you.” 

_But it is,_ he wants to say. How can she not know that? It takes him a moment to remember that she doesn’t know John Watson the soldier, John Watson who shot and killed someone just to prevent a man he hardly knew from taking a sodding suicide pill, John Watson who chinned the Chief Superintendent for calling his best friend a weirdo.

“Alright, there, John?” Angelo’s voice by his shoulder. 

John looks up. Tries to smile. “Yeah, fine, mate.”

The heavyset man presents him with a pint of dark. “On the house,” he says. “If I’ve ever seen a man as needs a drink, it’s you.”

“Cheers.” 

Angelo lingers, looking at John expectantly. John takes a sip, hiding his grimace. He’d really have preferred a nice lager, but there’s that old saying about gift horses and not looking them in the mouth; in any case, it seems to satisfy Angelo, who grins and ducks his head before heading back to the bar.

John stares into his beer. He finds himself thinking that if Sherlock’s voice had a taste, this would probably be it: deep, rich, bitter—like dark-roasted coffee beans or expensive wine, something his palette can recognise but isn’t refined enough to fully appreciate. He can feel Mary watching him. He takes another sip. 

“What are you going to do?” Mary asks after a long silence.

“Hmm?”

“Well, he’s alive. What…what are you going to do with that?”

“I don’t know. Nothing, I suppose.” But that’s a lie, and John knows it. He doesn’t want it to be, but there it is. “I mean, it doesn’t change my life, right?” _Wrong._ “It doesn’t change work, it doesn’t change…” He takes her hand, makes himself look her in the eye. “It doesn’t change us.” 

He wants to mean it. Oh god, he wants it so badly. But in the back of his throat is a lingering taste— _dark-roast coffee, pinot noir._

Mary’s hand grasps his. Silence is her only answer.

***


	5. Long Gone

_I still don’t know how to act_  
_Don’t know what to say_  
_I still wear the scars_  
_Just like it was yesterday_  
_____________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

_Hell._

As far as thoughts go, it’s hardly his most illuminating, but it’s the first one that crosses his mind as he stares at the door John closed in his face just seconds earlier. Sherlock can hear John’s heavy steps on the stairs: _His gait’s uneven; his leg’s been bothering him again._

Then the sound of the front door slamming. Sherlock crosses to the window, pulling back the curtain just enough to see John storming his way down the street, fishing his mobile out of his pocket as he goes. 

_Who will he call?_ Sherlock wonders. He watches as John presses the phone to his ear, and there’s a visible sigh, a lowering of the shoulders, an easing of tension in his neck as the voice on the other end comes through. _Ugh. Mary._

He lets the curtains close, his face frozen in a contemptuous snarl, his mind a lightning storm of firing synapses. Of course, he’d envisioned all the possible outcomes of this meeting, and John leaving had certainly been a distinct possibility. John adjusted better than most to the unusual and unexpected, but he was still well within the parameters of an average human being, and average human beings, when their capacity for the unusual is overwhelmed, flee: denial, avoidance, psychotic break, even loss of consciousness.

But John had made it through the shock of seeing Sherlock alive mostly intact—his little episode had been more of a brown-out than a black-out, really. He’d only fled when he’d realised that Sherlock had been observing him. Why? That was basic scientific method, observation. It was Sherlock’s nature. Did John not remember? He’d never seemed to care before. Sherlock had followed him, or had him followed, nearly everywhere since—well, since he hadn’t thought it was necessary, and Moriarty kidnapped John to use as a pawn against him.

John had known he was being followed, and had mostly ignored it, occasionally commented on it in casual conversation. It hadn’t bothered him, Sherlock was sure, or if it did, it was too low on the list of Things Sherlock Did To Bother John to warrant much attention. 

So what is different now?

 _Everything_ , his mind provides, and Sherlock rolls his eyes. This situation has him more addled than he realises, if his internal monologue has given itself over to gross exaggerations.

_No, not everything. Think. What’s different?_

Absence—obvious. He’s not as familiar with Sherlock’s habits anymore; he’s reacting as if it’s his first exposure to his eccentricities rather than his thousandth. Ugh, but that isn’t right either, because John’s first reaction to Sherlock, originally, had been praise and awe. 

The catalyst is the same, but the reaction is different, because— _Not a constant. Oh, John._

Sherlock closes his eyes against a sudden tightening in his chest. _No._ He draws in a slow breath through his nose. No, this doesn’t make sense. He runs through their meeting again, playing it back like a film on the wall of John’s room in his mind palace.

_John enters the room prepared for a fight: his shoulders thrown back, his hands held loose, fingers curled. His eyes dart once around the flat, checking his corners. Sherlock wonders if he even knows he’s doing it. His steps are certain as he crosses the room. Sherlock sees the punch coming, sees John’s fingers tighten, his arm draw back, but he is rooted to the spot. It’s the first time he’s looked John in the eye in three years, and he’s trying desperately to read what he finds there. He only has time to note the dark circles—John is not sleeping well—before the punch connects and he’s thrown off-balance, pain flaring at his lip, the bright copper tang of blood in his mouth._

_John blinks, and Sherlock practically watches the adrenaline drain from him, cascading down from his head to his chest to his belly and out through his legs like a tidal wave, dragging him down with it. John clings to Sherlock and Sherlock lets him, folding himself to the floor, cushioning John’s landing._

_Sherlock can’t stop staring at those eyes; wide and disbelieving, the pupils slightly dilated, the irises like deep water, mostly blue but reflecting back an assortment of dulled browns and greys and greens. John’s hands are caught in his clothing; John’s head is on his chest. Knowing that John has missed him is hardly the same thing as seeing it, feeling it—and oh god, how has_ Sherlock _not missed this, not needed it every second he was gone?_

_When he finally works up the courage to touch him, when John leans into the touch, Sherlock believes for a moment that they are fine; they are themselves. And then John pulls away, and the fury is back, the anger he wears like armor._

_What Sherlock wouldn’t give to tear that armor away piece by piece._

 

The film shudders to a halt. Sherlock’s breathing is slightly ragged. He’s surprised by his physical reaction to seeing John again. Emotions have always been difficult for him to sort, and it’s his body, not his mind, that usually informs him of how he’s feeling. This rush of adrenaline is unexpected, this fight or flight response, drawing blood away from his midsection, channeling it to his lungs, his heart. This sudden shift in blood flow, this is why his stomach fluttered that way when John touched his face. Pure physiology. Although, yes, on further consideration, it _did_ feel something like butterflies.

Downstairs, the front door opens, and there are footsteps on the stairs. Too heavy to be Mrs. Hudson, and she’s not due back for hours yet—Sherlock saw to it that she would be visiting her cousin in Oxfordshire today. The muscles in Sherlock's throat clench reflexively--no, his heart leaps into his throat, that's the expression. If John is back already, surely that means he’s forgiven. He stares at the floor, afraid to meet John’s gaze when he walks in, afraid his face will give away too much. The doorknob to 221B turns, and the door swings open.

“John, I—”

The words evaporate as Sherlock looks up to see the figure in the doorway.

“Ah,” says Mycroft, the corners of his eyes tight, his face pale. “No, I’m afraid not.”

They make no move toward each other. Sherlock slides one hand into his trouser pocket, aiming for casual disinterest and missing it entirely. He can feel the tension in his stance, can feel his lips press together defensively, trying to make up for the moment of vulnerability, as if it’s Mycroft’s fault, the way John’s name sounded so plaintive on Sherlock’s tongue. He allows himself to study his elder brother, focusing on spotting the man’s tells to distract himself from how many of his own are showing.

Mycroft has a better poker face, but then, he was prepared. His hands are clasped loosely behind his back, his arms and legs relaxed, his back straight. To the outside observer, he looks calm, collected. Controlled. To a Holmes, however, he is a picture of desperation: _Gaunt cheeks, mark on his belt indicating he’s recently started cinching it more tightly—he’s losing weight, and faster than he intends to. Puffiness around his eyes, slight bruising on the eyelids from rubbing his palms against them. Agitation, anxiety, sleeplessness. And that twitch in his right cheek, where the effort of keeping his smile small and condescending is taking its toll on his facial muscles._

_God help me_ , Sherlock thinks. _I believe he’s actually glad to see me._

Mycroft’s voice is low, his tone steady but far softer than its usual disdain. “It’s true then.” He looks Sherlock up and down, still not making any move to close the distance between them. “I’ve heard whispers for months. And there were the deaths…several prominent assassins, a handful of international criminals, all a bit too neat and a bit too convenient. But I didn’t know—I couldn’t believe—”

“Didn’t think I could fool the brilliant Mycroft Holmes?” Even faced with his brother’s obvious relief, with what amounts to affection—for them, at least—Sherlock can’t help but fall into old habits, taunting his elder brother. 

And affection or not, Mycroft knows his role well. “No, Sherlock.” A deliberate pause, and the elder Holmes cocks his head to the side. His smile would look at home on a shark. “I just couldn’t believe you would really leave him. Really let him believe you were dead.”

He lets that hang in the air for a moment before adding, “And to think I’m the one called the Ice Man.”

Always when they speak, it’s a question of who will give in first—when Sherlock runs out of ways to irritate Mycroft, he asks him about his weight; when Mycroft is at a loss, he asks about John. Either topic is a guarantee, an ace in the hole that leaves the other brother with only scathing looks for weapons. King’s to Mycroft, this round, because Sherlock is reduced to scowling at him in silence.

Mycroft glances around the room, untouched by his younger brother’s ire. “I assume he’s already been and gone,” he says. “The conversation went well?” Again, a flash of teeth that says he knows exactly how the conversation went.

Sherlock finds his voice, turning his back on Mycroft and picking up his violin. “You’ve seen me for yourself now. If you’ve nothing else enlightening to say, do kindly show yourself out.” He draws the bow across the strings in a shrill, sharp scale.

“I needed to prove to myself that you were alive.” Rather than leave, Mycroft at last steps into the room, seating himself on the sofa and crossing his legs before fixing his brother with a level look that Sherlock can feel prickling between his shoulder blades. He shifts, keeping his violin raised but watching Mycroft from the corner of his eye.

“Easier to spy on me from afar, don’t you think?” Sherlock quips. “Considerably less conversation required.” 

Mycroft does not take the bait. “Do you really think I’m the only one who’s noticed?” he asks.

Sherlock runs through a few bars of Mendelssohn before he says, “If my enemies want to kill me, they’ll have to come out of hiding to do so.”

“Ah.” Mycroft steeples his fingers, tapping them against his lips. “And you think your enemies will settle for killing you? They’ve done it once, remember, and it didn’t take.”

A long, low note from the violin. Sherlock’s hand works the string into a quavering vibrato. “I don’t need you to fight my battles for me.”

“I don’t give a damn about your battles, Sherlock. I care about the collateral damage.”

The bow freezes, and Sherlock raises his chin, tilting his face toward his brother. His eyebrows draw together, forehead wrinkling in confusion. “What are you talking about?”

“You may want to reconnect with your friend Lestrade at Scotland Yard. I understand they stumbled upon a rather gruesome murder scene a few days ago in Southwark.”

“Hardly uncommon,” Sherlock says, watching Mycroft’s face. “What does it have to do with me?”

“You happen to know the victim.” 

Short list of possibilities, then, the detective thinks wryly. But there is no hint of mocking on Mycroft’s face, and that more than anything sends a chill down Sherlock’s spine. 

“At least,” Mycroft corrects, “you knew him. Rather intimately, I believe.”

The short list shrinks to one name, glowing red in his mind’s eye. _The blue eyes blazing with anger, strands of blonde hair sticking to his forehead as the rain blows in from outside. He looks like a statue in a Greek fountain, some forgotten god, damp and shining and breathtaking and heartless._ The chill spreads through his limbs, and he lowers the violin before it can fall from his rapidly numbing fingers. 

“Victor.”

Mycroft doesn’t need to confirm, but he nods anyway. “I wondered if it was an accident, at first. An unfortunate coincidence. Mr. Trevor—”

“—lives in Edinburgh,” Sherlock interrupts. He is staring out the window, eyes moving rapidly across the streetscape, but all his attention is turned inward. “What the hell is he doing here?”

“He’s a barrister, you know—or was a barrister. Rather good. Clients all over the kingdom…the kind important enough to drop everything and head to London for a late night meeting.”

“Well, that leaves criminals or the Crown.” Sherlock’s lips twitch in Mycroft’s direction, but his heart is not in the teasing. 

“Criminals of the highest calibre. Or the lowest, depending on your point of view. It’s not surprising that he’d be in London, but his exact location was worrisome. Ask yourself, Sherlock, why Southwark? His clients are much higher end than that. They could have killed him anywhere.”

Sherlock spins to look at his brother. “A body in that neighborhood draws less attention than elsewhere.”

“These men adore drawing attention. Think, Sherlock.”

A few more seconds, and then the furrowed brow smoothes, Sherlock’s eyes widening in realisation. “John.”

Mycroft nods in acknowledgement. “If one wanted to get the attention of Sherlock Holmes, really let him know who he was dealing with, can you imagine a better way to do it?” He comes to stand beside Sherlock at the window. “This man you’re hunting—” 

“Moran,” Sherlock says.

“Ah. Our file on him is rather lean, I’m afraid.”

“He’s careful. Not as clever as Moriarty was, but not as arrogant either.”

“Which is its own kind of clever,” Mycroft points out. “He’s never been incarcerated. The only black spot on his record is his dishonourable discharge from the service. Some incident involving the torture of a civilian.”

Mycroft glances at Sherlock. “This one doesn’t show off, Sherlock, but he knows exactly how to get to you. If he kills John outright, he risks sending you further into hiding. Finding Victor shows he knows about your past, shows he can find your secrets. Killing him sends you a message. Killing him two kilometers away from John Watson’s flat sends a...pointed message.”

Sherlock is silent. His hand, hanging loosely at his side, is trembling. Mycroft must see it, because there’s no other reason for him to reach out, to lay one hand on Sherlock’s shoulder. Sherlock flinches at the contact, and Mycroft quickly pulls away. 

“He knows where John lives, Sherlock. And he knows how to hurt you. He knows hurting _him_ will hurt you.”

Hating himself for this, Sherlock reaches into his pocket and withdraws his phone. It’s a new number, but John will know who it is. His fingers are still shaking as he punches letters on the touch screen, and it takes him several tries to compose the message. He hesitates, cursing himself for his impatience. After all of this, he’s back where he started: people dead because he wasn’t smart enough, wasn’t careful enough, and John in danger. 

He hits send, and hopes he still has a chance to fix this.

***


	6. Exit Wounds, Pt. 1

_I’m falling through the doors of the emergency room_  
_Can anybody help me with these exit wounds_  
_I don’t know how much more love this heart can lose_  
_And I’m dying, dying from the exit wounds…_  
________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

John sits, still gripping Mary’s hand, still hoping she’ll say something. So far, she seems content to let him wait. The pulsing vibration against his thigh makes him jump, and Mary raises an eyebrow, questioning.

“Phone,” John tells her, working the thing out of his pocket. The text is from a number he doesn’t recognise, but he has no doubt who sent it. He may not be a sodding genius, but not every deduction is beyond him. He opens it.

_**2:08 PM**  
Know you’re angry. You’re entitled. Need you anyway. -SH_

“What is it?” Mary asks.

“Hmm?” John only half hears her as he works to sort out how to feel about this. Angry? Yes, there’s that. But there’s something deeper, something darker, in the way his stomach clenches at Sherlock’s words. 

_Need you anyway_. Is that neediness what frustrates John? Or is it the way he almost stands, so ready is he to come when Sherlock calls? Is he angry that Sherlock would dare to ask, or that he can’t help but answer?

“The text,” Mary says, drawing him from his thoughts. “It’s him, isn’t it? God, John, your face.”

He looks up at her, offering her the phone so she can read it herself. “It’s him,” he confirms. Her eyes skim the message, and he rests his forehead in his hands, his breath leaving his lungs in an exhausted sigh. “He’s giving me…Christ, like I need his permission to be angry with him.”

Mary taps the screen of his phone. “Need you?” she reads. “What does he mean he needs you?”

John shrugs, still agitated. “That’s just…that’s how he talks.”

Her eyebrows manage to climb higher. “He goes about telling you he _needs_ you?”

“Yes, and usually rather urgently.” His laugh is hollow, and a hysterical edge creeps into his voice as he remembers: “Once he told me there was an emergency and he needed me straight away. I left _work_ to get there, and when I did, I found him lying on the sofa. He told me we were out of salt. _Salt_. I told him to get himself down to the Tesco and get some more, and he said that was stupid, since I was already dressed and he wasn’t.” 

Mary is studying him like he’s some sort of fascinating but possibly dangerous insect. “I don’t understand,” she says, and John finds himself wishing she knew Sherlock, wishing he’d told her more about the impossible duality of him. It had just seemed easier to close the door, to separate the two pieces of his life, his heart. Sherlock belonged in the past, Mary in the present. But of course, Sherlock makes his own plans, and he never could be arsed to get John Watson’s opinion on any of them. 

Mary is still staring at him, puzzled. “You always talk about him as if he was your best friend.”

“He _was_.” John balks on the verb tense, alarmed to find he isn’t really sure how to answer her. “He…well, yes, he was.”

“He sounds a bit…” 

John’s breath catches. _If she says strange, or awful, or freakish, I’ll…You’ll what, Watson?_

“…demanding.” Mary finishes. John exhales.

“Yes,” he agrees. But if she knew all the stories, she would understand. Because he really isn’t painting her a fair picture of Sherlock—an accurate one, yes, but not a fair one—he adds, “He made up for it in other ways.”

His phone vibrates again in Mary’s hand, and they both look at it.

_**2:13 PM**  
Not speaking figuratively. Need you at Baker Street at once. -SH_

_**2:13 PM**  
Bring Margaret if you must. You’re in danger. -SH_

“Danger?” Mary looks at John, eyes wide with alarm. “John, what is he talking about?” A beat, and then, “Who’s Margaret?”

John plucks his phone out of her hands. “He means you. God, I don’t even think I told him about you. It’s not worth asking how he knows.” He busies himself with typing out a response.

_**2:14 PM**  
You’re not forgiven. Don’t know who the hell Margaret is, but I will bring Mary. Play nice. -John_

He pushes send, standing to fish out a few quid to cover their drinks. Mary, still sitting, stammers, “What does he mean, you’re in danger?”

He holds out a hand to help her up, less out of chivalry than to politely indicate she should join him. “Well,” he says, “this is Sherlock. It could mean an international criminal has placed a bounty on my head…”—her mouth falls open, but she takes his hand, allowing him to lead her to the door—“…or it could mean it’s likely to rain later and he’s worried I’ll catch cold.”

“Are we going, then?” She is still hesitant, letting him pull her along but staying behind him, ready to dig her heels in if needs must. 

“Of course we’re going,” he says without thinking.

“Oh, of course,” she mimics. “Dead best friend who you can barely talk about without starting to punch things—”

“It was one punch, Mary, for god’s sake, don’t make it sound like—”

“—and _of course_ you’re going.”

He stops outside the door of the restaurant, rubbing at his temple with his free hand. “Look,” he tells her, “I know I’ve not done a good job of explaining this to you. I know it seems—well, mad, I’m sure. I’m sorry.” His eyes find hers and hold them. “I really am. For all of this, Mary.”

Again, the hard veneer that has started to form around her eyes cracks and softens. The tension in her arms eases a bit, and she steps closer, looking up at him. “John, I just—”

He leans down, resting his forehead on hers. “I need you, Mary. I…he’s a force of nature, and I can’t explain him any more than I can change him. But if you’re with me, then maybe…”

_Maybe I can survive it. Maybe I can just be ordinary John, who doesn’t need the excitement and the brilliance and the ridiculous drama of it all. Maybe I won’t drown in him._

She kisses him softly, and John finds he has pressed his eyes closed. “I’m worried about you, John. I’ve never seen you like this before.”

“I know. I’m sorry.”

“Stop apologising. I just want to…I just want to understand it, that’s all.”

He kisses her again, because it makes him feel a little more normal. A little less insane. “I have to go. He’s ridiculous, but he’s usually right. If he says I’m in danger…well, it wouldn’t surprise me at all. But you don’t have to go if you don’t want to.” He sighs. “I don’t know how I’ll be. I’ve not exactly been myself today. I’m not even the me I used to be, when I was with—”

 _—when I was with him_ , is how the sentence goes, but John pauses, unable to say it. 

“—when we were…working together.” And god, that’s miserable. Relegating his life with Sherlock Holmes to those two words. Working together. Colleagues. 

“I ought to meet him,” Mary says, her thumb tracing his lips, trying to smooth away the frown lines there. “There’s something in you, John, when you talk about him…I don’t know. Like there’s a whole _John_ that I’ve never met. And if I don’t go with you now, I think you’ll keep hiding him from me, and that isn’t fair.”

That tugs at something in him--something tender, something that hurts. “You might not like that John,” he whispers.

Another kiss, that’s maybe meant to be reassuring, but falls short. “We’ll see,” she says.

She laces her fingers through his, and they go forward together.

***

John’s mobile goes off again as they walk the short distance to Baker Street. It’s Lestrade.

“Is this for real, John?” Lestrade asks by way of hello. So Sherlock’s called him, then.

He almost smiles, he’s so relieved to speak to someone who may actually understand. “He’s really alive, if that’s what you mean. Solid enough to take a punch.” He feels Mary flinch at that, but he doesn’t look at her.

Lestrade barks a laugh. “God, I wish I’d seen that.”

“Wasn’t as satisfying as you’d think.”

“Still. Christ.”

“He called you?” John asks. “I mean, he liked you. I’m sure he’d want to tell you he’s back. I just didn’t think he’d do it so soon.”

He can almost hear Lestrade’s eyes rolling. “Yeah, well, he needed something, didn’t he?”

“Needed something?”

“He didn’t mention it?” John’s silence is answer enough, so Lestrade continues, “A case—a murder. Happened last week. Not too far from your place, I think.”

“God, a case already? Didn’t take him long.”

“This one’s different,” says Lestrade. “High profile barrister. It’s a bit of a nightmare. But I think Sherlock knew him.”

John stops walking, and Mary bumps into him. The list of people Sherlock knows is short enough to fit on a Post-it note. “Knew him how?”

“Uni, I think. He was talking a bit fast.”

John breathes a little easier, but his chest still feels strangely tight. Mary is watching his face, worried. He gives her what he hopes is a reassuring smile and keeps walking. 

To Lestrade, he says, “Can’t help you there. He never spoke about school. Not to me, anyway.”

“Yeah, well. Where are you now?”

“Headed to Baker Street, actually. Mary too.”

Lestrade laughs darkly. “Think that’s wise? Last girlfriend you introduced to him broke up with you before the night was out.”

“You really don’t need to remind me.” John grips Mary’s hand a little tighter, the hand on his phone tightening reflexively. “Greg, he said he thinks I’m in danger. He mention that to you?”

“No,” says Lestrade, “but he was out of sorts. More so than usual, I mean…God, it’s weird.”

“What’s that?”

“Talking about him as if the last three years didn’t happen.”

John closes his eyes for a second. “Yeah,” he breathes.

“Well, look. I’m headed out there, too. He wants in on this one, and god knows we’re not getting anywhere with it. I’ll see you there?”

“Yeah.”

John says goodbye and gets off the phone. He can see the question writ large on Mary’s face, and he finds himself wondering what he’s gotten her into. The poor girl won’t even kill a spider, and she’s about to step into a high profile murder case, with the World’s Only Consulting Show-Off presiding over the investigation. And it’s not like he can trust Sherlock to keep a civil tongue in his head. 

“I probably ought to warn you,” he tells her. “About Sherlock, I mean.”

“Oh?” she says.

“He’s…well, he’s incredible. Most brilliant man you’ll ever meet. The thing is…”

“He thinks a bit much of himself?” she offers.

John snorts. “Yeah, a bit. And, well, he’s rude.” But John doesn’t like the way that sounds, so he hurries to explain, “He just doesn’t know how to control all that intelligence, and sometimes it all comes out of him in a rush, and then people start getting their feelings hurt.”

“So I shouldn’t take anything he says personally.”

John takes a deep breath. “Well, that’s the thing, isn’t it? Because sometimes it’s an accident, the way he hurts people, but sometimes…well, sometimes it’s not.”

“John, forgive me for saying, but he doesn’t seem terribly nice.”

“Nice?” John huffs a laugh. “Uh, no. Sherlock Holmes is not nice. But he’s not heartless, either, no matter what he tries to make you believe.”

They walk a few steps in silence. “What was Greg on about?” Mary asks after a moment. “That was him on the phone before, yeah? You sounded upset.”

“Yeah, that’s the other part. There’s been a murder.”

“A murder? God, John…”

“A few days ago. Someone Sherlock knew, apparently. Greg’s on his way over with the files so Sherlock can take a look.”

“I thought you said he was banned from helping with police cases.”

“Yeah, well, either Lestrade doesn’t care or three years is long enough to make the chief superintendent forget. In any case, they need his help. He sees things they don’t see, things no one sees—well, they see them, but no one can put them together the way he can. It’s like watching a magic trick, except you get to the end and it’s not a trick at all, it’s just brilliant, and—”

“John, slow down!” Mary interrupts him, and John realises his feet have begun walking faster of their own accord. 

“Sorry,” he says, slowing to match her gait.

“God, people would think you’re actually _excited_ that someone’s been murdered.”

John feels heat rush to his cheeks—and a smile tug at his lips. Because while he’s a little ashamed for Mary to see him react like this, part of his brain is giggling with gleeful familiarity: _A murder? It’s Christmas!_

“You are, aren’t you?” Mary says with wonder. “You’re excited.”

“I…” He’s not sure how to answer her. “I’m not happy someone died, if that’s what you mean.”

She looks like she wants to say something else, but she takes in his deep blush and closes her mouth again. They walk the rest of the way in silence.

***

The door to 221B is already open. John can hear voices coming from inside as he mounts the stairs, keeping Mary behind him as though he can shield her from whatever’s on the other side of that threshold. 

Lestrade’s voice rises above the murmur. “Look, I said you could see the files. I never agreed to take you to the scene.”

“I can’t work off of photographs,” Sherlock retorts. “You can’t possibly be concerned that I’ll contaminate evidence—Anderson’s probably drooled in half the blood samples already.”

“Sherlock, really—Oi, John. Thank god. You talk to him, yeah?”

John steps into the flat, pulling Mary after him as he takes in the scene: Sherlock stands in the middle of the sitting room, several glossy photographs clenched in one fist, his other hand on his hip. Lestrade has both hands in his pockets, only a faint tightening of his lips belying his outward calm. On the sofa, Mycroft is reclining, legs crossed, the rest of the case file open in his lap. The look he gives John is unreadable.

_Hell. Both Holmes brothers at once. Poor Mary._

“Greg,” he says, clearing his throat. “You know Mary.” Lestrade nods in her direction and she smiles at him nervously. 

“Mary, this is…well, Mycroft.” John gestures to the elder Holmes, who offers Mary a smile that almost makes John shiver.

“Mycroft?” Mary echoes, looking from John to the man on the sofa and back again. “Calls you out at all hours of the night for clandestine surgeries in government bunkers, Mycroft?”

“That’s the one.”

“Pleased to meet you,” says Mycroft. 

“Wish I could say the same,” Mary replies. On the other side of the room, John sees Sherlock’s lips twist slightly before he can catch himself.

“And this,” John sighs, turning to the detective, “is Sher—”

“Sherlock Holmes,” interrupts the detective, moving forward and offering Mary the hand not clasped around the photographs. She reaches for it hesitantly, still standing half behind John. He watches them, wary. 

“Yes, I’ve…I’ve heard a lot about you,” Mary says, shaking his hand.

“Have you?” Sherlock’s voice is low, his eyes darting sideways to glance at John before returning to Mary. 

John sees him siphoning information off the pair of them, as easy and natural as breathing. In the space of a few sentences, he’s already noted their hands, fingers still loosely entwined, noted the way John is hiding her behind him, the way John tenses when Sherlock touches her, the way his breathing stutters for a moment when Sherlock sweeps into his personal space. Sherlock sees, and John sees him seeing. He feels exposed and vulnerable.

But Sherlock steps back without saying anything, and John breathes a little easier. Maybe he really will play nice—for once.

John clears his throat, looking at Lestrade. “You were talking about the case?”

“Victor Trevor,” says Lestrade. “Barrister to several heads of the criminal underworld in the U.K.”

Mycroft leans forward, offering John the file, and he releases Mary’s hand to take it. He flips through the pages until he finds one that is immediately legible to him: a coroner’s report.

“Extensive burns,” he reads. “Good lord—heart removed?” 

Sherlock flinches, and out of the corner of his eye, John sees the blood drain from Mary’s face. “Sorry,” he says, glancing back and forth between the two before settling on Sherlock. “Sorry. You—you knew him?”

Sherlock nods but doesn’t meet his gaze. Mycroft speaks for him. “Victor and my brother were… _friends_ …when they were at school.” The way Mycroft twists the word “friends,” combined with the red-faced glare it earns him from Sherlock, leaves little doubt in John’s mind about the nature of Sherlock's relationship with Mr. Trevor. 

_Well. Hasn’t always been married to the work, then. That’s one mystery solved._

Still, Mycroft is enjoying his brother’s discomfort a bit too much for John’s liking. 

“Honestly, Mycroft,” John says softly. “Don’t you owe him a bit better than that?”

He isn’t sure who looks more surprised, Mycroft or Sherlock. They are both staring at him with eyebrows raised. John glances at Sherlock, shrugging slightly: _I’m not heartless, you know._

Sherlock’s head dips minutely, embarrassment still staining his cheeks, his lips parting: _Thank you._

There’s an uncomfortable silence, which John breaks by clearing his throat. “So,” he says, “barrister to a few dozen criminals. Doesn’t seem like it’d be difficult to find the one that did it. Just figure out who didn’t get the ruling they wanted.”

“That’s the trouble,” says Lestrade. “All groups he’s currently representing say they liked the bloke. He was damned effective. Hell, his clients want to know who did it as much as the Yard does, and I’m willing to bet their justice will be a sight more bloody.”

They pause, and John realises they are both waiting for Sherlock to interrupt with some observation or cry of lament over their idiocy. Instead, he is strangely silent. 

“Right,” John says after a moment. “Well, if he’s that good, maybe it’s the other side wanted him gone.” He glances pointedly at Mycroft. “Wouldn’t be the first time the good guys got their hands a bit dirty.”

“Careful, Dr. Watson,” says Mycroft. His voice is razor wire dipped in ice. “People in glass houses, you know.”

Mary shifts next to him. “What’s he talking about, John?” 

_Walked right into that one, Watson_. John works very hard not to look at her. Sherlock is watching the exchange, his face carefully blank—but for just a moment their eyes meet, and John sees the spark of realisation there as Sherlock adds another bit of data to his memory bank. 

A light bulb goes on in John’s brain, and he kicks himself for thinking Sherlock was actually being polite. Of course not. He’s sizing up John and Mary, searching for weaknesses. First rule of combat is know your enemy, and for whatever reason, because god only knows what Mary’s done to him, Sherlock Holmes is preparing for battle, stockpiling information like ammunition.

 _Fan-bloody-tastic._

Lestrade comes to the doctor’s rescue, waving in Sherlock’s direction. “If I could just get that one to look at the photographs…”

“I’ve told you,” Sherlock says, tearing his eyes away from John’s and brandishing the photos, “I need to see the scene.”

“And I’ve told you,” Lestrade shoots back, “it’s all there in your hand.”

“Ugh, you’re not listening!” Sherlock groans in frustration, tangling his hands in his hair and crumpling the photographs in the process. 

“Hey! Watch it with those!” Lestrade grabs the photos from Sherlock.

“Boys, please.” John hands Lestrade the file and he slips the photos inside. “Sherlock. What’s at the scene that’s not in the photographs?”

Sherlock pauses his hair-pulling, his eyes flicking across John’s face before fixing on something in the middle-distance. The colour has seeped from them, grey clouds rolling in over their normally bright blue-green, and they are rimmed with red around the edges. “I just…” Sherlock says, his voice barely above a whisper, “I just need to see.”

And while he’s no less furious with him, John understands what he can’t say. Whoever this Victor Trevor was, Sherlock had cared about him. How would he feel, if it were Mary? No, strike that. He doesn’t have to imagine. He knows how he’d felt when it was _Sherlock_. God, he’d watched Sherlock die—believed he had, anyway—and he’d still gone back sometimes, just to stare at the pavement, at the rooftop, not really expecting to find answers, but not sure where else to look. 

“Right,” he says. Then, to Lestrade, “Greg, why can’t he go?”

Lestrade throws up his hands. “Oh, come on, you too, now? Look, the chief superintendent has a long memory. I can sneak files out all day long, but bringing him to an actual crime scene is out of the question.”

“I can have a word with the superintendent.”

All heads swivel to look at Mycroft, who pushes himself up from the sofa. John narrows his eyes suspiciously. “And why would you do that?”

“As you said, John”—Mycroft’s lips purse around the words like they’re bitter on his tongue—“I do owe him.”

Lestrade shrugs, throwing up his hands and walking away as Mycroft pulls out his phone, disappearing down the stairs to make a call. The doctor turns to Sherlock, who is watching him warily. He lowers his voice, pulling the detective aside.

“I’m still angry with you, you know,” John says.

Sherlock tilts his head as if considering this, but doesn’t reply.

“So what is it then?” John’s voice is barely above a whisper. 

Sherlock’s brow wrinkles in confusion. “What is what?” 

“What is it that you’re not telling us?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Maybe you’ve forgotten, but I’m not actually an idiot. You’ve been far too quiet—no opinions to shove down anyone’s throat, no casual insults to hurl about. And you told me I was in danger. Of course, you could’ve been lying—”

“I wasn’t lying.”

“—but if it’s true, that means you know more about this than you’re letting on.”

Sherlock’s lips twitch with the suggestion of a smile, but it’s gone so quickly John can’t be certain he’s not imagining it. In any case, the his face is serious when he says, “I know who did it.”

“You know?” John’s voice rises, and Sherlock motions for him to be quiet. Lestrade is on his phone now across the room, but he is watching them suspiciously. Mary is still standing in the middle of the room, her eyes boring holes into John’s back. John shrugs his shoulders uncomfortably, hissing, “Christ, Sherlock, just tell them and be done with it!”

“Not that simple. The man who did this, he’s the last of Moriarty’s operatives. The only one I haven’t—” He stops talking, glancing at John. 

“Oh my god,” John sighs. “Tell me you’ve not been on a three-year _murdering_ spree.” Then, when Sherlock says nothing: “Good Christ, Donovan was right.”

Sherlock’s face contorts so violently that John almost laughs in spite of his horror. “I’m joking, Sherlock.” The detective relaxes a bit, and John adds, “Sort of. Only…please tell me you’re not serious.”

“I can’t tell you much of anything,” Sherlock says unhelpfully. 

“Oh, naturally. And why is that?”

“You said you didn’t want to know why I faked my death.” 

John closes his eyes, drawing on reserves of patience he’d forgotten he possessed. “You know you’re infuriating, right?” he remarks mildly. Sherlock ignores him, staring out the window. “Alright, fine. New rule. If I ask a question, you can answer. But the minute I hear anything that smacks of boasting, your time is up. Got it?”

Sherlock cuts his eyes toward him, nodding almost imperceptibly.

“Good,” says John. “Now—”

“Your brother might be an arrogant sod,” Lestrade calls out, interrupting, “but he works fast, I’ll give him that.” He is striding back across the room toward them.

Sherlock is immediately alert. “Crime scene access?”

“Granted,” Lestrade confirms. “For you and for John, on the condition that you’re under the supervision of a forensic unit.”

“Oh god. Not Anderson?”

“He’ll likely be one of them, yeah.” Lestrade ignores Sherlock’s grimace. “That means you’ll have to make do with the bloody photographs until tomorrow.”

“Why not today? Ah, never mind. Sunday. Wouldn’t want important police work interfering with an afternoon of mindless television programmes.”

“Yeah, well, I’m not pulling my guys away from their weekend just because your big brother threw his weight around.” Sherlock scowls at him, but Lestrade is unmoved, telling John, “I’ll have the body transferred to Bart’s, if you want a look.”

John opens his mouth to respond, but Sherlock is ahead of him. “We do,” the detective says. Then, his brow furrowing, oblivious to John’s glare: “Why Bart’s? Why not the Yard?”

“I’m not having you anywhere near the Yard morgue,” Lestrade says. “I’ve not told anyone else you’re back yet, and I can’t have you giving half my officers a coronary, now can I?”

An eye roll from Sherlock. “I don’t see why not. Does Scotland Yard have a minimum percentage of ineptitude they’re trying to maintain?”

“Oh, good,” John mutters sarcastically to Lestrade. “He’s being funny.” Sherlock glances at him, and John sees a flicker of uncertainty thin the full lips for a moment. Ignoring him, John asks, “How long will it take? The transfer?”

“Tomorrow night, maybe. His brother’s name will speed things up, but the paperwork alone will take a few hours.” Lestrade hands the case file to John. “See if you can get him to look over this lot in the meantime.”

“Me? Oh, no. I’m going home.”

“No!” Sherlock cries. All heads turn to him. “No,” he repeats, softer. “John, you can’t.”

John glances at Mary, the alarm on her face mirroring his own, Sherlock’s warning echoing in his head. _You’re in danger._

“What, my flat?” he asks. “These people know where I _live_?” 

“John—?” Mary begins, just as Lestrade asks, “What people?”

Sherlock’s face closes in on itself, giving nothing away. 

“Right,” says John under his breath. “International criminal it is, then.”

“What?” Lestrade again, his voice growing heated.

“Nothing.”

“John, if you know something…”

He flaps his hand at Sherlock: “Ask him.”

“Sherlock?” 

The detective breaks his inscrutable stare long enough to glance at Lestrade, but his mouth stays firmly shut.

“ _Sherlock_ ,” repeats Lestrade, insistent. “You know the rules. I don’t give a damn who your brother is, if you’re withholding information relevant to an ongoing investigation, I will—”

“It’s just a theory,” Sherlock interrupts smoothly, his eyes still fixed on John. 

“A theory.” Lestrade does not sound convinced. 

“Man I used to know turns up dead, I have to entertain the possibility that this was a message to me. If I’m correct, I have to assume anyone else close to me is also in danger.”

Lestrade scrubs at his face with his hand. “ _If_ you’re correct. And since when do you ever not believe you’re correct?”

“I assure you, when I know something that will be of use to the police, I’ll tell you.”

Lestrade looks at John, who can only shrug. “I don’t like this,” he says, pointing first at John, then at Sherlock. “You’re hiding something. Both of you.” 

John folds his arms across his chest and looks away. “Alright, fine,” says Lestrade, adding in a sullen mutter: “Like bloody children.”

“John can stay with me,” says Mary, coming forward to stand beside John. He jumps a little as her fingers curl through his. He’d almost forgotten she was there. Lestrade and Sherlock look equally nonplussed. 

“Well,” she says, “you said he can’t go home. He’ll need a place to stay. It only makes sense—”

“If they know where John lives, they’ll know where you live as well,” Sherlock points out.

“God,” says Mary, blanching.

“No, no, no need to fret about it,” Sherlock says dismissively. “They’re not after you. They want to hurt someone I care about. What would hurting _you_ accomplish?”

“Sherlock!” John’s voice is louder than he expected, and Sherlock’s head whips around. Mary’s hand tightens around his. “Enough,” he says, the words almost a growl.

Sherlock’s nostrils flare, one eyebrow twitching upward. “You’ll stay here,” he says.

“Here?” John and Mary echo in unison. John shakes his head. “No.”

Sherlock plucks the case file from John’s hand, shuffling through the papers inside. “If you go back to your flat alone, you make yourself a target. If you go to Mary’s, you make her a target as well.”

“How am I any less of a target here?”

“You’re not,” acknowledges Sherlock. “But if someone wants you, they have to go through me, and I rather think that would ruin their game.”

Lestrade, hands on hips, glares at them. “Theoretically, you mean.”

Sherlock’s head tilts in mocking agreement. 

_This day_. John cradles his head in his hands, sighing. _This_ fucking _day._

“Right,” he says. “Right, so I’m to stay here? And what about work?”

“Don’t be ridiculous, John. I can hardly keep an eye on you if you’re at work.”

Mary snorts incredulously. “He’s not serious. John?”

“Of course I’m serious,” Sherlock retorts. 

“John,” Mary says, pointedly ignoring the detective.

“Yeah, I—” He curses silently, taking Mary by the arm and guiding her away from the others. “Look,” he says softly. “I know—I know it’s crazy.”

“What is he hiding?” she hisses back. “If you’re really in so much danger, if he really cares so much, why isn’t he telling the police what he knows?”

“What, you’re asking _me_ to explain the way he thinks?”

“He’s _your_ friend.”

“I don’t have an answer, Mary. But I also don’t really see another option.”

Her mouth is slack with disbelief. “So, you’ll just, what, _move back in_ with him? Skive off _work_?”

“It’s only temporary.” Again, John has the uncomfortable sensation that he’s lying, even though he was quite sure he was being honest right up until he heard the words come out of his mouth. Mary hugs herself as if she’s suddenly cold.

“I’m sorry,” he says. He’s not entirely sure what he’s apologising for, but he can honestly say he’s never felt so remorseful in his life. “All this…it’s bloody and messy and dangerous. It always is, with Sherlock. But we can still…what if you stay? Stay here with me tonight.”

Mary glances over his shoulder, and John follows her gaze to Sherlock, who is hanging the photographs from the case file on the wall above the sofa. Enlarged prints of badly charred limbs and a gaping chest cavity now fill the space between the spray-painted yellow smiley face and the stray bullet holes. She shivers, and John knows her answer without her saying.

“Right,” he mutters. “Christ…”

“I understand.” Something in her tone crawls under his skin, sinking sharp claws into his chest.

He works to keep the worry from his face, his hand sliding up so his thumb can stroke her jaw line. “You do?” 

Mary nods. “You’re right, John.” She doesn’t pull away, but she keeps her arms wrapped tightly around her body, preventing him from getting too close. “Bloody and messy and dangerous…and you’re part of it.”

His thumb stops moving, perhaps out of sympathy for his heart, which has suddenly taken a holiday from its regular duties. “Well, yeah, but…” 

_Brilliant, John. Absolutely smashing oratory skills._

“Look,” she says, drawing in a shaky breath. “I’m not angry. I just…I didn’t realise.”

“I don’t…I don’t have to go, Mary. I can just stay here, until it’s safe again. I don’t have to be part of…I don’t have to do this again. With him.” John is starting to worry he may be having a coronary. He can feel his pulse pounding loudly in his ears, but he’s quite sure his heart hasn’t beat once in the last fifteen seconds.

“You _want_ to go, John. You want to go, and I don’t want to stop you.” The smile that touches her lips is small and sad. John wonders how it’s possible for something so soft to cut so deeply. His heart does beat, then—a painful thud that echoes hollowly in his chest, like a caged, dying beast throwing itself frantically against his ribs.

“Mary, I…”

She kisses him once on the cheek, her lips cold against his suddenly flushed skin, and steps back. “I’ll call you,” she says. 

She is at the door before John thinks to move, taking a few halting steps after her. When she’s halfway down the stairs, he stops, standing lost in the middle of the room, suddenly keenly aware of Lestrade and Sherlock behind him. 

“I, uh…” Lestrade coughs into the awkward silence. “Alright, John?”

John blinks. “Yeah. Yeah, I don’t…” 

_Stop talking, Watson_. It’s a simple enough choice: go after Mary and try to mend whatever it is he’s managed to break, or stay here with the ghosts of his past. If someone had asked him just a few days ago whom he’d have chosen, he’d have said Mary in a heartbeat. But his body doesn’t ask him his opinion, and as it turns out, it isn’t much of a choice at all. His heart aches for Mary, but the ache is overshadowed by the newly rekindled spark burning low in his belly. It’s nice to feel safe, to feel cared for, but she’s not wrong when she says he wants this other thing too, this thing that is bloody and messy and dangerous and _oh god yes, please._

The moon will escape its orbit before John Watson learns how to escape Sherlock Holmes.

He shakes himself, looking at Lestrade. When he speaks, his voice is firm. “If I’m to stay, I’ll need some things from my flat.”

“Make a list,” says Lestrade. “I can take you to pick up the essentials, and I’ll send a couple of guys by tomorrow for the rest.” He twirls his car keys on his finger, already heading for the door.

Sherlock is standing back, examining the grotesque new artwork he’s plastered onto the walls. He’s pretending to ignore them, but John can see the small smile playing about his lips.

“You needn’t look so pleased with yourself,” John tells him. “You’re paying the full rent until I’m able to go back to work again.” He lowers his voice. “And we’re having a long chat when I get back from getting my things. You owe me some answers.”

***


	7. Exit Wounds, Pt. 2

_Marks of battle, they still feel raw_  
_A million pieces of me on the floor…_  
_Lose your clothes and show your scars_  
_That’s who you are_  
________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

It doesn’t take long for John to collect the basics: a change of clothes, his toothbrush, his gun. After a moment’s consideration, he adds a pair of towels and two sets of sheets—for someone so maddeningly logical, Sherlock is hardly ever practical, and even if the detective has thought to bring a few essential items with him back to London, John very much doubts he included linens on his list of necessities. 

Glancing around the sitting room to see if he’s missed anything, John’s gaze lands on the rubbish bin just inside the kitchen. He reaches inside and retrieves the smaller of the two skulls, placing it in his bag with the rest. He is in and out of his flat within ten minutes. With London traffic, however, it is nearly an hour later before Lestrade drops him back at Baker Street. 

He finds Sherlock sitting cross-legged on the floor in front of the sofa, facing the wall. He does not look up when John enters, his gaze fixed on the array of photographs on the wall. John climbs the stairs to his old bedroom, placing his things on the mattress, which is, as he predicted, bare. 

Withdrawing the skull from his bag, John clumps back down the stairs, wondering if by some miracle Sherlock at least had the foresight to purchase some tea. He wanders into the kitchen to search, opening and closing cabinets rather louder than necessary. Sherlock does not move from his place on the sitting room floor, does not even blink as John, concluding his fruitless search, sighs loudly and sinks to the floor beside him.

“No tea,” he remarks. Sherlock is silent.

“No food of any kind, in fact. How are we going to eat, Sherlock?” More silence. “Right, I’ll just pop out for some Chinese then, shall I?” John moves to get up.

“You can’t leave,” Sherlock says flatly.

“Ah, not catatonic, then.” John settles down once more. 

“I’m _thinking_.”

“Yes, well, even you won’t think very well if you starve to death.”

“We won’t starve. I’ll send Mrs. Hudson for some groceries.”

“Mrs. Hudson—she knows? That you’re not—”

“I called while you were out. Bit difficult to convince her over the phone, not the way I’d have preferred to do it, but we could hardly have her coming home to find two squatters in the flat above her.” 

John sets the skull on the floor between them and leans back on his hands, stretching his legs out in front of him and letting his eyes rove over the photographs.

“Brought your friend back,” he says, indicating the skull.

Sherlock’s hand moves absently, scooping the skull into his lap.

“You’re welcome,” John grumbles.

“Did Mary call?” Sherlock changes the subject smoothly, his voice all honeyed innocence.

“Don’t."

“Don’t what?”

“Talk about Mary.”

“I’m just making conversation.”

“No, you’re not,” John says mildly. “You never ‘just make conversation.’ You’re _terrible_ at making conversation.”

“What would you like me to say, John?”

“Nothing at all, if you can manage it. At least not about Mary.”

They are silent again. After a moment, John gestures to the display over the sofa. “So tell me,” he says, “about this.”

“Be more specific, John. You want to know about the murderer? The mutilation of the corpse?” The barest hint of a pause. “Or about the victim?”

John glances at him out of the corner of his eye. “If you’re not allowed to ask about Mary, it hardly seems fair for me to ask about him.” And if John wasn’t watching for it, he’d have missed it, but he sees Sherlock’s eyelids flutter closed for a brief moment, the faintest sigh escaping his lips. Relieved.

“Let’s start with the murderer,” John says, “since he seems to have it in for me as well.”

Sherlock opens his eyes. “Colonel Sebastian Moran.”

“Colonel?”

“Dishonourably discharged.”

“Well then he’s hardly a colonel anymore.”

A half smile from Sherlock. “It bothers you that he outranks you?”

“I’m not a child,” John snorts. “I just thought you would prefer to be accurate.” The irritating half smile stays in place, so John pushes forward. “You said he was one of Moriarty’s men?”

“His number two, actually. If Moriarty was a spider, Moran is a rat; he’s smart, he’s sly, and he’s not at all afraid to get himself dirty—rather enjoys it, even.”

John looks up at the photographs. “I can see that.”

Sherlock stands, reaching for the wall and pulling down an image that shows a ribcage cracked open, white bits of broken bone standing out against the deep red-black of burned flesh. In the background, blurry, the suggestion of a skull is visible just above the shoulder. Sherlock hands him the photo.

“What do you see?” he asks softly.

“You’ve already read the coroner’s report. What could you possibly—?”

“John. Please. Second opinions, yes?”

“Fine,” he says, pushing himself up from the floor and taking the photo. He sits on the sofa, scanning the image, willing his brain to work like Sherlock’s, willing his eyes to observe. “Sternum removed. Ribs broken inexpertly, but in the right places. Just a guess, but I’d say your man has done some research on post-mortems. From the look of these bone shards, though, he used a tool not meant for the job—garden shears rather than rib cutters, maybe.”

He studies the skin—or what remains of it. “Extensive burns, unevenly distributed. The body wasn’t lit on fire. God, he’d have had to burn each section of skin separately. And here—oh. Christ, Sherlock, that’s started to heal there. This was done—at least, part of it was done—when he was alive.”

John pauses, gauging Sherlock’s reaction. Sherlock is watching him impassively, his face devoid of emotion, but John has not forgotten that this is not just another body, not just another victim. “Sorry. Are you okay?” he asks gently. “Hearing this, I mean?”

“Why wouldn’t I be?” Sherlock’s voice, like his face, is a blank slate, a closed door. The rest of his body, however, is not so controlled, hands fisted on his hips in agitation, his chest thrust forward in a show of unconscious bravado.

“You’re not as good an actor as you imagine yourself, you know. You cared about him.”

“I don’t—” Sherlock must be analysing his own body language, because he cuts himself short. John sees him visibly relax his hands, rolling his shoulders forward. He perches on the arm of the sofa, his feet on the cushions. “I’m fine.”

“I’m not telling you anything you don’t already know.”

“Have you seen it yet?” Sherlock’s gaze indicates the image in John’s hand.

“Seen what?”

“Look, John. Really look.” 

“I’m _trying_ —”

“Burned flesh? Heart taken out? Remind you of anything?”

Sherlock is maddening, wanting John to be something he isn’t, wanting him to see…to see… _oh._

 _I will burn the heart out of you._ “Moriarty,” John murmurs. 

“Yes,” confirms Sherlock. He glances back at the wall. “Which means this death was specifically meant as a message to me. Moran believes I killed Moriarty. I took something he valued—he took something of mine in return.”

“Believes you killed Moriarty? You didn’t?”

Sherlock waves a hand absently. “Suicide. I may have…tipped the scales, as it were.”

“Christ.” John sets the photo aside, leaning back against the cushions. “So this is why you came back? Didn’t you think it might be a trap? Lure you here with this murder, then kill you? You said Moran was smart.”

Sherlock’s gaze slowly pulls away from the images, looking at John with genuine surprise. “No,” he says softly. “I only just learned about Victor—about the murder—today.” 

“Today? Jesus, Sherlock. How are you…how can you look at these?” He gestures to the wall.

“It’s a body, John. Why should it be any different than any other case?”

“ _Because_ —” John makes himself take a breath, reminds himself that Sherlock and his bloody Asperger’s are rather talentless when it comes to the art of expressing emotion. “Because he was someone you cared about. And you feel it, Sherlock. Don’t pretend you don’t. This isn’t just another case for you, no matter how much you want it to be. It’s natural, it’s downright _normal_ of you to be bothered. When people you care about die, it’s…it’s not…” 

And hell, what he wouldn’t give for a share of the Sherlock’s emotional detachment right about now, because he has, quite by accident, bumbled into a veritable minefield of subtext. Something is choking him, a hard knot in his throat that his voice has to strain against. “Most people find it upsetting,” he finally finishes, his voice raw with the effort. He leans forward, elbows on knees, to avoid looking at Sherlock.

“John…” Sherlock slips smoothly off the arm of the sofa, his long legs folding underneath him so that he is kneeling on the seat, sitting back on his heels. John tenses—they are not really any closer than they were a moment ago, but the shift in position makes the space between them seem smaller. 

John turns his head. “Sorry.”

“You say that so often.”

“Yeah, well, one of us ought to.”

That silences Sherlock, buys John a moment to work on swallowing the lump in his throat. When he feels in control of his voice again, he asks, “Why did you come back? If not because of the murder, then…why?”

Sherlock does not answer right away. Eventually John risks a glance at him. Sherlock is studying him with wide eyes, the irises a cautious, foggy blue. Then they darken, and Sherlock looks away.

“I was gone too long,” he says at last.

John huffs a sigh that is no less exasperated for its softness. “That’s not an answer.”

The corner of Sherlock’s mouth tugs down in a frown. “There were things I couldn’t manage while in hiding. Things I had to take care of.”

“God, really?” John pushes himself up from the sofa, rounding on him. “It would kill you, wouldn’t it? To just give one straight answer. Just say one thing that doesn’t sound like a bloody _sphinx_.”

“You don’t want to know—”

“Stop telling me what I want, and what I feel, and what I bloody well can and cannot do! You don’t get to just—god, just sweep back in and take over my whole life! Why do you suddenly care about protecting me?”

Sherlock shrinks back, wilting under the heat of John’s anger, but John can’t stop himself. There are tears pricking the backs of his eyes, his whole face flushed with emotion.

“Three years, Sherlock, I’ve been stuck in this…this _hell_ , of believing you were gone. And _now_ you care about hurting my feelings? _Now_ you care about saving my life? Why? Why now?” 

“ _Because I was losing you_!” The words slip from Sherlock’s mouth as if by accident, his hands reaching toward John of their own accord. In the deafening silence that follows, the bow of his lips pinches itself shut, a cage belatedly locking behind the escaped words.

“You were…” John is still breathless from the aftermath of his rage. “You were losing me?”

Sherlock’s mouth stays firmly shut, and he wraps his arms around his knees defensively.

“Sherlock?” John steps closer to the sofa so the other man is forced to look up at him. And he does look up, as if he’s unable to stop himself, his eyes finding John’s and holding them. John can see the rise and fall of his chest underneath his shirt, can read anxiety in the quick, shallow breaths. 

“You were forgetting,” Sherlock says softly. 

John shakes his head, his hands curling into fists at his sides. “That’s not fair,” he says. “I spent three years doing _nothing_ but remembering. The first few months, I could hardly stop a nosebleed without having flashbacks. I’d see you in crowds, I’d hear you calling for me in the middle of the night.” 

The late afternoon sun streaming through the windows finds Sherlock’s eyes, turns them a fierce absinthe green. The light catches the red notes in his dark hair and paints his pale skin golden. For a moment, he looks every inch the spirit John still fears he may be.

He laughs, and there is no humour in it. “It took nine months before I could even attempt to date, before I had even a shred of myself to offer to someone else. Two years and a bit before someone would put up with me for very long. And three years—three years to decide I couldn’t let you own me anymore.” Sherlock’s hands are rising again, stealing toward John as he speaks. They wave slowly back and forth, pale scraps of seaweed caught in shifting currents of dust motes. John can see them searching for him, and he steps back, just out of reach. 

His voice when he speaks is cold. “How long did it take _you_?”

“Me?” Sherlock seems genuinely confused.

“How many days—hours? minutes?—went by before you stopped thinking about me?”

Sherlock’s hands waver, fall back to his sides. “That isn’t—John, that’s—” His legs unfold in his agitation, his feet hitting the floor with a dull thump. “You know I don’t work like that,” he finally manages. 

And yes, John does know, but that doesn’t make it okay. In fact, it makes it very _not_ okay, that he could spend so long caring so much, while Sherlock can simply close some mental door and ignore what’s on the other side. 

So he simply states, “And you know that I _do_.”

A long silence, where John can see Sherlock’s mind spinning frantically, trying to read him, trying to deduce some clue that will tell him the right thing to say. But there are no clues, because John honestly doesn’t know what he wants to hear.

John rubs a hand across his eyes, exhaustion making his limbs feel heavy. “I’m going to take a shower,” he says at last. He trudges toward the stairs, pausing briefly at the bottom to turn back. “Oh, and Sherlock?”

Hope like light suffuses Sherlock’s face when John looks at him, and John tries very hard not to simply collapse under the weight of his self-loathing. He is constantly, always, maybe for the rest of his life, failing someone. Sherlock, then Mary, now Sherlock again. 

“Don’t forget to ask Mrs. Hudson about the groceries,” he says. He looks away before disappointment snuffs out the light in Sherlock’s eyes.

***

_John tilts his head back, clutching his phone, his feet moving of their own accord. It’s that old pull, the one he knows so well by now: Sherlock in danger, Sherlock about to do something irreparably foolish, and John has to stop it, has to fix it._

_“No! Stay exactly where you are! Don’t move.” Sherlock’s voice loud in his ear, his arm, on the rooftop high above, rising to warn the doctor away. John stumbles to a halt, his body torn between the need to protect and the need to obey._

_“Alright,” he tells Sherlock, straining for calm against a rising tide of panic._

_“Keep your eyes fixed on me.” As if John could look away. “Please, will you do this for me?”_

_“Do what?”_

_“This phone call, it’s…it’s my note. That’s what people do, isn’t it? Leave a note.”_

_John throat clenches, his heart freezing in his chest. His voice is more sob than statement. “Leave a note when?”_

_“Goodbye, John.”_

_“No, don’t—” But there is a click, and Sherlock is gone. On the roof, John sees him toss his phone carelessly aside, the phone that is his research tool, his favoured means of communication, his life, and that more than anything convinces John that this is not some elaborate, ill-timed joke._

_Sherlock’s arms are flung wide, his coat billowing behind him like wings, and John has time to think how theatrical, how cruel, how perfectly Sherlock this whole thing is. And then Sherlock is falling, and John thinks nothing for a while._

John sits bolt upright, surfacing from his dream as from a great depth, gasping greedily for air. He flounders, struggling between dream and reality, the tears on his cheeks cold, like damp pavement, like Sherlock’s skin as he gropes for a pulse—

“John!”

The mattress gives as another weight joins his on the bed, and there are hands on his face. The voice is so near, so familiar— _black coffee, dark chocolate—Goodbye, John._

“John, look at me.”

John opens his eyes to see Sherlock kneeling over him, his hands holding John’s head, his eyes colourless in the dark room. John grips his forearms, his fingers unconsciously wrapping around Sherlock's wrists, finding the pulse there. His lungs ache as they struggle to resume a regular pattern of breathing. Finding Sherlock here, alive, should be reassuring, but he’s so…close.

“The hell—are you—doing in here?” he manages between gulps of air.

Sherlock’s brow wrinkles. “You called for me,” he says. 

“I didn’t—Sherlock, I was asleep.” John shakes his head, slapping at the Sherlock's hands, which remain stubbornly locked in place. It’s really not making breathing any easier.

“Dreaming,” Sherlock says. It’s not a question. 

“Brilliant,” John mutters, rolling his eyes. “People dream while they’re asleep. Sherlock Holmes, everyone.”

“Dreaming about me,” Sherlock presses, either ignoring the sarcasm or missing it entirely. “About my—” He hesitates, looking uncertain.

“Suicide,” John offers, just as Sherlock finishes, “—fall.”

They are both quiet. Sherlock finally releases John’s head, and his lungs relax immediately. 

“You have them often?” Sherlock asks at last.

John rolls onto his side, facing away from him. “It doesn’t matter.”

“Are they always—like that?”

“Yes. No. I don’t know.” John rubs at his chest under the sheet. “My therapist calls it central sleep apnoea presenting with sleep paralysis.” He huffs a laugh. “Fancy name for having a nightmare and forgetting to breathe.”

Behind him, Sherlock sighs. “Molly said you had dreams, but I didn’t know…”

John’s whole body tenses. “Sorry, Molly said?” He rolls over, sitting up to look at Sherlock. “And just when did she say this?” 

Sherlock doesn’t answer, but he doesn’t have to. He didn’t spend eighteen months with the world’s only consulting detective without brushing up a bit on his deductive reasoning. Not even Sherlock can fake a death certificate—it takes a coroner to do that. And lucky for them, they know a coroner—one who’s rather massively in love with Sherlock, at that. Molly would do anything he asked of her: forge legal documents, give him a place to stay—even lie to John Watson’s face for three years.

John closes his eyes. It hurts that Molly would lie to him, but he knows firsthand the power of Sherlock in making people do things they might not otherwise do. What hurts more…

“She knew,” he says. “The whole time. Christ, Sherlock. You told Molly, and you couldn’t tell me?” His voice is low, wounded.

“John…” Sherlock sits perfectly still—either trying not to move toward him, or trying not to run away. 

John leans back against the headboard. “I get it. I do. You needed her. I just…” He stops, because he can’t make himself say what comes next. _You needed her, but I needed you._

“John.” The mattress dips again as Sherlock moves—toward him. Panic swells in John’s chest, and he’d back away if he weren’t already backed up against the headboard. Sherlock leans forward slowly, his legs folded beside John’s, his head bowing until it touches the doctor’s chest. The panic loosens its grip on his heart, and John thinks he might laugh, except it isn’t really funny: Sherlock is no master of physical expressions of emotion, but somehow the awkward pose conveys his sentiment perfectly.

“John, I’m sorry.” 

The baritone voice vibrates through his chest as Sherlock speaks, mixing with the thrum of his heartbeat, and John doesn’t need to see his face to know he’s not lying this time. His arms hover uncertainly at Sherlock’s sides—if someone hugs you, you hug them back, but John has no idea what the appropriate response is for someone pressing their forehead against your chest. 

He feels Sherlock starting to tense as he remains still, apparently interpreting his lack of response as lack of acceptance. He forces himself to relax. “It’s fine,” he says. And he wasn’t sure until he said it, but it’s true. The ache is still there, but this is Sherlock, and staying angry with him for being Sherlock is like being angry at water for being wet.

“I didn’t know—”

“It’s fine,” John repeats. He laughs a little. “I know how you work, remember?”

Sherlock’s forehead presses against him harder, and John laughs again. “Ow! That hurts, you annoying bastard.”

Sherlock pulls back. “Sorry.”

John slides back beneath the sheet, turning away from him again. “Let’s not overdo it with the new vocabulary, yeah?”

He hears Sherlock’s soft laughter behind him and feels the bed shift as he stands. By the time the door closes behind him, John is already asleep again. This time, he doesn’t dream.

***


	8. Bullet From A Gun

_When you’ve forgiven but you can’t forget_  
_It feels like you’re drowning but you still got breath_  
_And we’ve been trying to lay this ghost to rest_  
_But there ain’t no getting out of this mess_  
___________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

“If everyone would kindly _shut up_!”

The three men who make up Lestrade’s forensic unit cease their incessant conversation, although Anderson’s sneer is still making the back of Sherlock’s skull itch. 

“Does he think he’s going to _hear_ a clue?” Anderson murmurs to his colleagues, who snicker behind their hands.

Sherlock glares at him, debating whether to list a selection of auditory clues that have helped solve past cases, or to simply call him a ham-fisted twat. He is leaning toward the latter—the rude word will make John laugh, and the only thing better than having a laugh at Anderson’s expense is watching _someone else_ have a laugh at Anderson’s expense. It’s that, surely, and not just the thought of making John happy, that prompts his body to release a rather pleasant cocktail of serotonin and oxytocin. He is opening his mouth, the first syllable poised on his tongue, when Lestrade steps into his line of vision. 

“Anderson, get us a coffee,” Lestrade calls over his shoulder, not taking his eyes off Sherlock. Sherlock’s insult dissolves into a small sigh of annoyance at having his fun spoilt. When there is no movement behind him, Lestrade looks back. Anderson’s mouth is hanging open incredulously. Lestrade simply raises his eyebrows and jerks his head toward the door. With an elaborate eye roll, Anderson excuses himself, and the itch at the base of Sherlock’s skull recedes a bit. He spares a small nod for Lestrade, who shrugs and waves to the room: _I scratch your back_ , the gesture says. _Now you scratch mine._

Sherlock glances at John, who is studying the bloodstains on the wooden floor. John is irritated again this morning, frustration radiating from him like heat. Sherlock is familiar with the many variations of John’s anger: worried anger, confused anger, hurt anger, even joyous anger. It used to be one of his favourite pastimes, puzzling out which John was indulging in at a given moment. Now, his frustration is a sort of psychic background noise that Sherlock wraps around him the way a child might his favourite blanket. God, he _has_ missed him. 

This morning, Sherlock is certain, John’s anger stems from feeling inadequate. To be honest, he is rather useless here, but Sherlock would rather have him underfoot and safe than out of the way and dead. He closes his eyes, remembering John’s heartbeat, felt more than heard as he pressed his forehead against him the night before. The frantic pulse—leftover from the nightmare, or was it elevated because Sherlock was close? He’s noticed this, the way John’s whole body kicks into high gear at his proximity—was it there before? He can’t seem to remember. 

“What am I looking for, again?” John asks, the blue overalls Lestrade insisted they wear rustling as he turns. 

Sherlock—who can’t be bothered with something as trivial as Scotland Yard’s idea of a contaminant-free crime scene—is still wearing his customary suit and coat. “Anything out of the ordinary,” he says.

“Ah.” John looks around him at the gruesome scene. “Aside from all the blood, I suppose?”

Sherlock spares him a look that is both amused and annoyed. “Naturally.” He takes his magnifying lens from his pocket and bends down to inspect one of the stains. “How much blood would you say there is here?”

“Our boys said a pint and a half, give or take,” says Lestrade.

John glances at the floor. “Probably. Two at the most, allowing for what’s soaked into the wood.”

“Less than a litre total.” Sherlock pauses, waiting for John to find the implication. He’s dying to show off for someone—there’s been no one to care for so long now—but he’d rather John feel like he’s contributing.

And while Sherlock knew this within moments of entering the flat, it still pleases him when John deduces correctly: “He didn’t bleed out. He was dead before his heart was—” He stops, glancing at Sherlock.

“Before the heart was removed, yes,” Sherlock finishes for him. Then, quietly, he adds, “You don’t have to keep doing that.” He ignores the tableau that has painted itself over the floor where John stands: Victor, his flesh twisted and angry from the burns, his blonde hair missing in places where he has torn at it in agony, the rest sticking to his face in sweaty clumps. Sherlock’s stomach clenches, fighting an old instinct that says he should have seen it, should have stopped it—and a newer, darker force that says Victor got what he deserved. John thinks he is in mourning, and in a way, he is. But he is mourning a boy who died years ago, on a rainy night, with cruel words on his tongue and cold malice in his eyes. The man who came after was a stranger to him. And if there is a slight tremor in his hand as he inspects the bloodstains—well, that’s likely just too much tea on an empty stomach. 

John shakes his head—in disagreement or disapproval, Sherlock isn’t sure. John lowers his voice. “Look, I know you’ve got the corner on the whole voice of logic bit, but why are we here, Sherlock? There’s nothing to solve. You already know who did it.”

Sherlock continues to study the surrounding floor with his magnifying lens. “Yes, but I don’t know where he is.”

“It’s probably safe to assume he knows where you are.”

“And as long as that’s the case, he controls the game. He decides when to move and we react. If I can find him, I can get ahead of him.” He pauses, lingering over one bloodstain: _Edge too regular; something was in the way, stopped the blood from pooling normally._

“What did you move, aside from the body?” Sherlock calls in the general direction of Lestrade and his men. 

Lestrade answers, “Nothing, except to remove trace, and there wasn’t much of that. Why?”

“You’re sure?” Sherlock’s eyes are scanning the floor. “None of the furniture was touching the blood?”

“No.”

 _There_. Sherlock’s gaze lands on a threadbare rug in one corner of the room. He swoops down on it, drawing a pair of blue latex gloves from his pocket and pulling them on. He runs one finger along the edge of the rug, noting the red-brown dust that flakes off onto the wood floor. _Dried blood. Moran moved the rug—hiding something. Something he knew I would find._

He lifts the rug carefully, folding the fabric back on itself to expose the bare wood underneath. Nothing. He trails gloved fingers over the floor, closing his eyes to focus as much attention as possible into his sense of touch. There—one board ever so slightly higher than the others. He continues to feel his way along the seam, pressing experimentally as he goes until—

The board pops free, allowing Sherlock to pry it up. John and Lestrade have moved to stand behind him, watching over his shoulder as he reaches into the small cavity underneath. Sherlock withdraws the object inside, holding it carefully between a gloved thumb and forefinger. 

Lestrade speaks first. “A bullet?”

Sherlock turns it toward the light. “Blood on the tip, but the casing is intact. It’s never been fired.” He takes a small bag from his coat pocket, dropping the bullet inside. He offers the bag to John—again, John won’t tell him anything he can’t find out on his own, but Sherlock finds it enjoyable to watch him think. Sherlock’s own mind is a computer, processing thousands of bits of information a second, mechanical married to electrical in a blur of friction and light. John’s is a typewriter, methodical, clunky, simplistic—but elegant in its own way. Sturdy. 

“Heavy ammunition. 8.59mm, I’d say—sniper rifle. And—hang on, these marks on the bottom are wrong. These numbers here—233?” John hands the bullet back to Sherlock. “Mean anything to you?” 

Sherlock shrugs.

“Sniper rifle?” asks Lestrade, hands on hips. “You’re not going to tell me this poor sod was killed by a _sniper_?”

Sherlock just smiles evasively. “Anderson processed the scene. Why don’t you ask him?”

“Anderson?” Lestrade glances over Sherlock’s shoulder at the doorway. “He’s still out.”

“Either the staircase has developed a deviated septum, or he’s back,” Sherlock retorts, taking advantage of Lestrade’s averted gaze to pocket the bullet. John watches the exchange with a poorly suppressed grin. Sherlock stands, turning to the door just as Anderson reappears, a cup of coffee in one hand. 

Lestrade moves to block his path again. “Right, and where do you think you’re going?”

“Well, let’s see,” Sherlock muses. “We’ve inspected the scene, found the obvious clue that Anderson missed—”

“ _Hang_ on,” interjects Anderson. “What the devil did I—”

Sherlock overrides him without missing a beat, casually rearranging his scarf. “Oh, don’t look so surprised, Anderson. Frankly, it’s amazing you do as well as you do, intellectual capacity the size of walnut. But I would rather like to make use of a lab, now that we have _all_ the evidence.” 

Beside him, John coughs. “Alright then,” he mutters. “You’ve made your point. No need to preen like a bloody great peacock.” 

Sherlock’s smug grin slips a bit in spite of the laugh underneath John’s warning. He does not _preen_. Lestrade holds out a hand to silence Anderson, who is red-faced and spluttering, his nostrils flaring like a bull about to charge.

“You know I can’t just let you walk out of here with evidence,” he tells Sherlock.

“The bullet is a message for me. Even if your men process it, even if they find something, they won’t know what it means.” It’s difficult not to take another swipe at Anderson here, but Sherlock manages—though his discretion is somewhat spoiled by the prideful glare he shoots at John.

Lestrade is unmoved. “I’m not letting that evidence out of my sight. Last time I let you have free rein of a crime scene, it nearly cost me my job.”

Sherlock bristles. “Only because you were foolish enough to listen to this…this _paramecium_ ”—he jerks his head toward Anderson—“and get the chief superintendent involved.” John is rolling his eyes again, but that one was hardly preening—just stating the facts.

“Boys, honestly,” says John, stepping between them. He looks at Lestrade. “He’ll have to use the lab at Bart’s. You come with us, and the evidence never leaves your sight.”

“Fine,” Lestrade says, lips pursed. 

“Fine,” Sherlock sighs.

John’s phone vibrates in his pocket, and he pulls it out. _Tension in his shoulders, fingers tightening, slight frown_ —Sherlock knows it’s Mary before he answers. _Well, she did say she’d call._ Interesting though: yesterday John was relieved to hear Mary’s voice. Today he just looks weary. 

John wanders away, lowering his voice with a sidelong glance at Sherlock. Sherlock recalls his body language yesterday, the way he always managed to place himself between Mary and Sherlock—first intentionally, protecting Mary from Sherlock’s scrutiny, then unconsciously, like they are ammonia and sodium hypochlorite, like allowing them to get close is dangerous for all of them and disastrous for John. Which, Sherlock supposes, is exactly what John believes. And watching him yesterday, wavering between them…

Sherlock has felt the magnetic pull between them, felt how he moves and John follows. Felt it, but never really been aware of it, until yesterday, when he felt John resisting. If John keeps letting himself be pulled in two directions, he’ll be pulled apart—but he seems determined to divide himself between the two of them. Sherlock fights back a wave of irritation at the thought. He’s never been terribly good at sharing. _Shouldn’t have to share—he was mine first._

“—if you’re sure.” Across the room, John’s voice has meandered back into audible range. “No, of course I think it’s important, I just—No, you’re right. We’ll talk.” He rubs at his eyes in a put upon manner that he usually reserves for Sherlock on his bad days. “Well, I can’t exactly get away from him at the moment.” He glances at Sherlock, realises he’s listening, and lowers his voice again. 

Sherlock’s heartbeat goes oddly syncopated for a moment, and he busies himself removing his gloves. A memory surfaces, unbidden—the feeling of his fingers in John’s hair, the smaller man’s hands fisted in his jacket. He pushes it away. Perhaps thinking of Victor has him feeling more vulnerable than usual, but he can’t afford to think this way. John is his friend, but John isn’t…he’s always said he wasn’t…but there is that way that his breath catches whenever Sherlock gets too close, the way he relaxed against his chest when Sherlock held him, the way…

No. He thrusts his hands into his pockets with a bit more force than necessary. He needs to get to Bart’s, get to the lab—back to things that make sense. Chemicals behave the way they ought to. Hearts are so infinitely unreliable.

“Okay then,” John says. “No, I’ll see you in a bit.”

John pockets his phone, and Sherlock raises a questioning eyebrow at him. “I presume we’re to have the pleasure of Mary’s company?” He can’t help it if his voice has gone strangely flat. 

“She’s meeting us at Bart’s.”

“Quite the house party this is turning out to be. You’ll be inviting the neighbours next.”

“She wants to talk, and you won’t let me out of your sight. It was there or Baker Street, and now you’ve got a clue to work from and a body on its way to the morgue, I can’t imagine we’ll be back home anytime soon.” 

His logic is sound, but Sherlock scowls anyway. “Very well,” he says, and it is most certainly _not_ petulant, so John can stop looking at him like that. 

He wraps his hand around the plastic bag in his pocket, tracing the shape of the bullet with one finger. 

***

Sherlock crumples a piece of paper in his fist, growling in frustration.

“Hey!” Molly protests. “That’s Mr. Crieff’s post-mortem report!” She snatches the paper from his hand, trying to smooth it. Sherlock ignores her, leaning on the lab table with both hands, his head hanging between his arms. 

John leaves off trying to help Molly sort out the papers—she’s more flustered by his help than by the damage to the document. The two have been awkwardly cordial, Molly falling over herself to apologise, John falling over himself to forgive, but both maintaining an oddly cool professionalism. She smiles at him in a sort of uncomfortable gratitude and excuses herself, disappearing into the hallway with a last glance at Sherlock.

He glares after her as she rounds the corner—which is why he sees Mary slip into the lab behind her. She doesn’t say anything when she enters, and Sherlock avoids making eye contact. John hasn’t noticed her yet—perhaps if they both ignore her she will simply go away. 

The tension between John and Molly was distracting; the tension between John and Mary will be absolute chaos to his thought process, and all Sherlock wants to do is settle into a rhythm again—the lab, the clues, the experiments…and John beside him, an ear for his endless discourse, someone to talk to so he looks less insane than talking to himself. And, all right. It’s rather nice when John answers back, even if he does have a habit of saying stupid things. 

The man in question sighs as if he has heard Sherlock’s thoughts, folding his arms across his chest. “No ideas, I take it?”

“Don’t be an idiot,” Sherlock snaps fondly. “Of course I have ideas.”

“So talk us through it. You know how much you enjoy hearing yourself talk.”

Sherlock glares at him, but John’s face is tactfully blank. He may be a horrible liar, but the man can play innocent when he wants to.

“Fine,” he says. He moves to the computer, where several enlarged images of the bullet are pulled up. “No primer, no propellant—it’s a dummy. Copper jacket, lead-filled. Nothing unusual in the metallurgy of the bullet. No trace aside from the blood.”

“DNA?”

“It’ll take hours—days really—to finish processing, but I have a theory.”

“Do I want to know?”

“Blood type is A positive.” Sherlock watches John’s face for a reaction.

John’s lips purse as he absorbs the information. “Lots of people are A positive, Sherlock.”

“Not many of them play personal blogger to Sherlock Holmes, though.”

“Should I even bother asking how you know my blood type?” John asks. “Or, for that matter, how a mass murderer knows?”

“I doubt he knows. Much more likely it’s actually your blood.”

“Ah, well, that’s a comfort.” 

“You had blood drawn just a few weeks ago—cholesterol test, I believe. If he’s half as good as I think he is, it wouldn’t be that hard for him to get hold of.”

John’s expression is world-weary as he sighs, “And how long, exactly, have you been following my medical records?” Sherlock just looks at him-- _Do you really want me to answer?_ —until John drops his gaze— _No, I suppose not_. 

“No fingerprints,” Sherlock continues, turning back to the photographs of the bullet. “All that’s left is the damned numbers!”

“233,” John muses. “A date, maybe? Twenty-third of March?”

“Possibly a date. Or a time. Half twenty-three hundred—eleven thirty in the evening. Or two thirty-three in the afternoon. Or a password. Or a pin number. Hell, it might even be a victim count.”

“You’re joking. Two hundred and thirty-three? That’s a bit ambitious, don’t you think?”

Sherlock shrugs, his gaze fixed on the computer screen. “The bullet is a kind of signature. Moran wasn’t a sniper during his military days, but he got top marks in marksmanship. The bullet itself isn’t military issue, though it’s made to look it.”

John moves closer, looking over his shoulder. “What do you mean, made?”

Sherlock tries to ignore the way John’s breath feels against his neck. “Here.” He points at one of the images on the screen, a close up of the bullet’s base. “If this were manufactured by any of the major ammunition suppliers, there would be letters, numbers, something to indicate who made them. You said it yourself—the numbers are wrong. No file marks, either, so he didn’t purchase a bullet and alter it later.”

“Hang on, you’re saying he made this?”

“Just guessing, but—”

“But it’s a good guess,” John finishes for him, and Sherlock smiles faintly. “Why a bullet from a sniper rifle, if he’s not a sniper?”

“Not a sniper by habit,” Sherlock corrects. “He’s made distance kills before. Moran doesn’t have a preferred method of killing—habits are dangerous. Men who acquire habits tend to get caught. He used a long-range bullet so I know he can find me anywhere. That’s the message—I’m not safe.” He pauses, meeting John’s gaze for a moment, fighting back a flinch as he adds, “ _You’re_ not safe.”

He’s not sure how he expected John to react to that, but John surprises him by smiling. “And that’s as close as we get to normal, isn’t it?” he asks, laughing softly.

 _And I said dangerous, and here you are_ , Sherlock thinks, smiling back. Again, for a moment they are themselves again, and the detective is struck by the unique balance between them, like two notes in a chord, separate but complementary, fuller, richer, somehow _more_ together than they ever could be apart.

“John?” Mary’s voice cuts through the swelling harmony in Sherlock’s mind, making the notes turn sour. John jumps a little, turning toward the door, and Sherlock frowns. He’d halfway forgotten the woman was still standing there, and her intrusion leaves him feeling surly.

“Mary? Christ, how long have you been there?” John crosses the room to her, but he hesitates when he reaches her side, clearly uncertain how he ought to greet her. There is a momentary awkwardness that Sherlock inwardly savours before Mary brushes her lips across John’s cheek. 

“A few minutes,” she says in answer to his question. “I didn’t want to interrupt.”

“Quite right,” Sherlock mutters.

John looks at him. “What was that?”

“Oh…a light,” he says, putting on an innocent face and patting at his pockets. He withdraws a lighter and his cigarettes, enjoying the look of disapproval that clouds John’s face. “Ah, never mind. I’ll just be outside then. Sure you two have lots to talk about.”

He brushes past them into the hallway, letting the door swing shut behind him. He strides a few steps down the hallway for good show, then doubles back to lean against the wall just outside the door, casually lighting a cigarette. He smokes it reflectively, closing his eyes to better focus on catching the snatches of conversation he can hear through the door.

***

After Sherlock leaves, Mary stands still for a moment, watching the door. Her eyebrows draw together, pinching a thoughtful crease into her forehead. “He knew I was here,” she says softly, as if she’s speaking to herself.

“What, Sherlock?” 

She shakes herself, glancing back at John. “He saw me come in, I’m almost certain. He just chose to ignore me.”

“Yeah, well, he’s not exactly the type to say hello.”

Mary doesn’t respond to that, just squeezes her lips together and looks up at him.

John sighs. “Alright, so what, then? You want me to go after him, ask him to apologise? It’s just the way he is, Mary.”

“You mentioned.”

John finds a stool and sinks down onto it, leaning his elbows on the lab table. He indicates another for Mary. This conversation is not exactly off to a great start, and he has a feeling he’ll want to be sitting down for the rest.

“You said you wanted to talk,” he reminds her.

She hesitates before coming to sit beside him. “John…” She says his name like it’s porcelain—fragile. It draws him out of his irritation, softens his heart and makes him draw her close. He kisses the side of her forehead, and it takes everything in him not to apologise again.

“What’s happening to us?” she asks quietly. “What’s happening to _you_?”

“Mary, it’s not—”

“Don’t say it’s nothing, because you know that’s a lie.”

Yes, he knows it’s a lie. But that doesn’t mean he can explain it. “We can get through this,” he says instead. “A lot has happened in the last few days. A lot of things I thought were over…”

He stops, taking a deep breath, and Mary jumps in.

“That’s what I’m talking about, John. Listen to yourself. You talk like…I don’t even know.” She pulls away from him. “I don’t understand it. I don’t understand how this man can come back from the dead, how he can just…just _take_ you from me.”

“Come on.” John tries to laugh, but Mary’s eyes are tearing up, and his smile goes crooked. “Hey, come on. He’s not taking me from anyone.”

She looks at him with wide eyes. “You really don’t see it? God, John. Since he’s been back, you’ve been…”

“I know I’ve been angry, but I think—”

“Angry?” Now she does laugh, but the sound is enough to wipe the last shred of humour from his face. “John, you haven’t been angry, you’ve been…I don’t know. _Alive_. I’ve never seen you like this before. You yell, you…Christ, you punch people”—she ignores his eye roll, gesturing to the lab around them—“you do…whatever all _this_ is, looking at dead bodies and being hunted by murderers and…”

“Hey,” he cuts in, “slow down. This is just…it won’t be like this, not all the time.” 

Mary shakes her head. “That’s not it. I don’t…all of this, it’s not me, you know that. But I don’t mind that it’s you. I mind that…that I never _knew_ it was you.” Another pause, as she wipes at her eyes. “Why didn’t I know, John?”

He doesn’t know what to say to that. To any of it. He can’t even bring himself to meet her gaze. “I guess I just thought it didn’t fit together. My old life, I mean. I couldn’t be who I was with Sherlock…not with you. Not at all. It just…it hurt too much.”

“And now he’s back, and you can’t be both people, John. You can’t be his John _and_ mine.” 

John takes a deep breath, reaching for her hand. He wants to hold her, but that doesn’t feel fair, somehow. “Can I at least…can you give me some time, Mary? God, so much has happened. You can’t ask me to choose—”

“Choose?” She looks genuinely surprised, and her voice softens. She lays one of her hands against his cheek, the gesture so gentle it breaks his heart. “Oh, John. He’s right, you know.”

“What?”

“You’re an idiot,” she sighs, smiling sadly. She cuts off his question with a finger across his lips. “I’ve been telling you I loved you for months, and I always wondered why you couldn’t say it back. At first I thought it was just you being male, being afraid of commitment…but that wasn’t it. You’re more committed than any man I’ve ever met. You were just…already committed to someone else.” She leans in and brushes her lips across his, and John is too overwhelmed to do anything but sit and stare. “I just wish it was me,” she whispers.

“Mary…”

She shakes her head again, her eyes starting to tear up once more. She gives him one last kiss. “Goodbye, John Watson,” she says. There is no anger in her voice, no heat, only a kind of resigned sorrow. She pushes away from him and hurries for the door, and John can only watch her go.

***


	9. Walk Away

_You’ve fallen in love in the worst way_  
_And if you don’t go now then you’ll stay_  
_Cause I’ll never let you leave, never let you breathe_  
_Cause if you’re looking for heaven, baby it sure as hell ain’t me_  
_______________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

Sherlock bends over the body, examining a patch of skin with his magnifying lens. Up close, he can see where each burn pattern originated— _black mark at the centre of the burn, damage to skin radiating outward. Electrical burns_. His hyper-realistic imagination kicks into overdrive, summoning up a vision of Victor, wires criss-crossing his skin, back arched in agony, teeth clenched around his scream as the electricity hums through his body. On impulse, Sherlock checks his mouth and confirms a suspicion: the man’s tongue is bitten nearly in half.

Something twists in his gut, a sensory memory of that tongue against his own, of the now charred limbs tangled around— _No_. He shoves the memory roughly back into its appropriate room and closes the door firmly behind it. Victor is gone. Was gone long before his death, and certainly didn’t spare a second thought for Sherlock. Moran is clever, to have tracked the man down, but Victor would have been useless if he was looking for information about Sherlock. Then again, if all he wanted was to keep the detective off-balance, open up old wounds so the new ones would hurt that much more…

 _Stop_ , he commands himself. _Unproductive. Think about something else—burn marks…no, not Victor. Nothing about him. What then? John?_ That line of thinking is not much better, clouded as it is with John’s moodiness and the uncomfortable increase in heart rate that seems to be accompanying hiss presence. Still, there’s a warm knot of something in his chest as he glances across at his friend. Sentiment? Can’t be indigestion; he hasn’t eaten anything today. 

Sherlock _should_ be feeling guilty. He’s almost positive that’s the correct response. Or is it pity? He knows satisfaction is emphatically _not_ the appropriate emotion to feel when one’s best friend is presumably heartbroken—or at the very least in some sort of emotional shock. 

But he is feeling rather satisfied…and a bit annoyed, because if John was nearly useless before his conversation with Mary, he is an absolute _hazard_ afterward. Sherlock actually finds himself wishing he were more capable of empathy, if only to alleviate his frustration as John drops his forceps into the victim’s chest cavity for the third time. He bites the inside of his cheek and reaches in with gloved fingers, retrieving the tool and handing it back to John with a raised eyebrow, which he fails to see.

“Do you need a moment?” Sherlock asks, trying—largely unsuccessfully—to sound concerned rather than irritated. 

John blinks owlishly, as if he’s just realising Sherlock is in the room. Once his gaze focuses, however…Sherlock takes a half step back before he can stop himself. John’s eyes go from deep, vacant blue to cold steel, and for just a moment, Sherlock sees the John Watson who once shot a man to save his life, the man he knows is there but so often forgets, the strong, the courageous, the _dangerous_ man who hides beneath the quiet sarcasm and dowdy jumpers. Sherlock swallows, part of his mind noting with fascination how his pulse quickens further under that stare.

“I’ll be fine,” John says, his voice nearly as cold as his eyes.

Sherlock makes his voice equally flat. He knows he oughtn’t, but he really can’t seem to help himself. Finding ways to annoy John seems fair play for the havoc the man is playing, intentional or not, on his ability to focus. “Yes, well, if you wouldn’t mind terribly keeping your medical instruments _outside_ dear Mr. Trevor. Wouldn’t want to emotionally traumatise the consulting detective, now would we? Now _pay attention_.” 

John continues to stare at him, a hint of incredulity in his flaring nostrils, his lips pressing together so tightly they nearly disappear. He folds his arms across his chest. 

“Number four rib, right side,” he says. Sherlock’s brows draw down in confusion, and he glances at the body, trying to sneak a glance at the rib in question. “Nick on the anterior surface of the rib—or what’s left of it. Can’t say for sure, with the sloppy bone cutting that’s been done, but it looks like collateral damage from a bullet.”

“Shot, then?” Sherlock asks, head tilting sideways. “Are you sure?”

John still doesn’t move. “I just said I wasn’t.” A pause, and is Sherlock imagining a glimmer of satisfaction in his eyes? Sherlock frowns, but John continues, “However, I do have some experience with bullet wounds. I’ve seen marks like that before—close range, small calibre—handgun, I’d guess.”

Damn him. Sherlock flounders for a moment, caught between two powerful and contradictory sensations. Half of him is completely put out that John would have the audacity, the sheer _nerve_ to encroach on the his carefully marked territory of detached, condescending deductions. The hard drive of his brain is spitting out kill codes, whispering poisonous nothings into his ear, things he could utter to put the man back in his place: _Excellent, John; if you’d paid half as much attention to poor Mary, perhaps you wouldn’t be in this situation._

Unfortunately—or perhaps fortunately, come to it—the other half of him is duly impressed. No, that’s not it. He’s _ecstatic_ , gleeful, entirely beside himself at the revelation that John has seen something he did not. Spotted a clue, analysed it, fitted it neatly into its place in the puzzle—all while appearing to be a thousand miles away. _God, John,_ his mind crows, a manic counterpart to the vicious insults still vying for room on his tongue, _never boring. Never boring, and never done surprising me._

Sherlock’s throat clenches, and in spite of the cacophony of thoughts in his head, all that he can manage to say is, “Oh.”

John is still watching him, a flicker of interest in his eyes warning Sherlock that he is being too transparent. He bends down, searching the chest cavity for the rib John pointed out, not giving John the opportunity to study him.

“Right, are we done then?” John asks.

“I think…” Sherlock finds the spot he is looking for and takes a moment to commit the detail to memory: _small fragment of bone missing, about a millimetre in width, hairline fracture at the base. Shot came from above while the victim was on his back. No exit wound—the bullet was removed when the heart was taken_. He straightens, feeling somewhat more like himself. “Yes, I suppose we are.”

“Good.” John turns smartly on his heel and marches for the door without looking back. Sherlock frowns after him, busying himself with removing his gloves and setting aside his tools—not tidying up, God no, he’ll let Molly take care of that, but refusing to rush after him. It’s the Sherlock’s place to sweep dramatically out of rooms, John Watson trailing behind like the tail of a particularly rare comet—not the other way round.

What _has_ gotten into the man? He’s split up with girlfriends before, and he’s never been quite this cross about it, so why the devil is he so…off? Surely not because of what Mary said about Sherlock. That part had actually been quite lovely—though for someone so enamoured of sentiment, John hardly seems very taken with that one.

 _Perhaps he needs to eat_ , Sherlock thinks. _That always seems to sort him._ Making a mental note to ask Lestrade to pick up a take-away for them, he gathers his things and follows John out the door.

***

They have only been at Baker Street for a few moments before there’s a knock at the door. John is upstairs going through the boxes Lestrade’s men dropped off earlier.

“Sherlock, door,” he calls down the stairs. There is no movement from the sitting room. He sticks his head out his bedroom door as the knock sounds again. “Sherlock!”

Silence is the only response. There’s a third knock, more insistent, and John swears and stomps down the stairs. When he rounds the corner, he finds Sherlock sprawled across the sofa, already in his pyjamas and dressing gown. One arm is slung over his eyes, and he’s not moving. 

John sighs. No response. “Hell, Sherlock, you can’t even...? No, sod it, never mind.” He opens the door.

Donovan is standing there, fist poised to knock again. She jumps a bit, looking momentarily startled before her face settles into its more customary sneer. She is holding a bag in each hand.

“John,” she says by way of hello.

“Yeah,” he says, “what do you need?” He isn’t trying to be rude, but he’s hardly in the mood for her.

“Heard the freak is back.”

 _And it begins_ , thinks John, rolling his eyes. “And I can’t imagine you’re all that eager to tangle with him,” he replies, “so I repeat my question: what are you doing here?” Is it his imagination, or does he hear a snigger from the sofa? When he glances at Sherlock, the man still hasn’t moved. Donovan tries to peer around the door, and John moves so that his body blocks her view. 

She raises an eyebrow at him and shrugs, raising one of the bags. “Lestrade asked me to bring you this.” 

John takes the bag, and a whiff of Chinese food hits his nostrils. His stomach rumbles audibly. When was the last time he ate? For that matter, when was the last time Sherlock ate? He’ll have to see if he can force him to—

“Tell him the Yard isn’t a delivery service,” Donovan says, interrupting his thoughts. “He can’t just ring us up and place an order whenever he feels like it.”

John hears a muffled voice from the sofa: “Apparently I can.”

He coughs into his hand to mask a grin. “I’ll pass the word,” he tells Donovan.

She eyes him suspiciously, not moving. “Something else I can help you with?” he asks.

“It’s funny.”

“What’s that?”

“The freak told Lestrade we had to hurry up and feed you so you’d quit moping about, but you seem well enough to me.” She pauses, watching the grin fade from his face with what can only be called satisfaction. John spares a glance at the sofa and catches Sherlock peering out from under his arm at him. When he makes eye contact, he looks away and rolls over. 

“In any case,” Donovan continues, “Lestrade also sent this. For you.” He takes the other bag from her, peeking inside to find a bottle of Glenfiddich. “He seemed to think you might need it.”

“Ta,” says John, only half sarcastically. 

“Well, I’m off.” Donovan puts her hands in her pockets and turns away, glancing back over her shoulder before she heads down the stairs. “Remember, if you kill him, be sure he tells you how to make it look like an accident first.”

The door closes in her face, and if it shuts with just a touch more force than necessary…well, John has never pretended to be a saint.

***

An hour later, Chinese food cartons are scattered about the kitchen table like fallen soldiers on a battlefield. The bottle of Glenfiddich sits amid the wreckage, the light from the fireplace reflecting in its depths and casting amber shadows across the room. 

John started with a modest two fingers of scotch after twenty minutes of trying to force Sherlock off the sofa and into the kitchen, which was tantamount to trying to push a particularly floppy boulder up a particularly steep mountainside. 

After he finished his second glass, he dialled Mary. When it rang through without an answer, he poured himself a third and lit a fire—his alcohol-steeped brain already suggesting that switching on the sitting room lights would be nothing short of blinding. Now John gathers the sad remains of the take-away, piles them on a plate, and, glass in hand, makes his way to the sofa where Sherlock is still sprawled. 

“Budge over,” he says, batting at Sherlock's feet. Sherlock grunts but doesn’t move. “Fine.” John carefully balances the plate on Sherlock’s stomach and turns away. “I’ll just be upstairs.” He turns away, but before he makes it out of the room there is a dull thump from behind him.

He turns back to see Sherlock curled into a ball on one side of the sofa, his lanky body still taking up most of the space but leaving about half a cushion for John to squeeze onto. The plate of food has tumbled unceremoniously to the floor. John sighs.

“You’re cleaning that up, you know.” He lowers himself onto the sofa—slowly, because the scotch is just beginning to toy with his motor skills. 

“You’re drunk,” says Sherlock, his muffled voice coming from somewhere in the blue folds of his dressing gown. It’s difficult to tell what part of his body is what, he’s folded himself into such a heap.

John snorts. “Only a bit. I think I have a right to be.”

Sherlock’s head appears underneath one of his arms, his eyes in the firelight the same melted gold colour as the whisky. “You’re much quieter when you’re drunk,” he remarks. “Not so angry.”

“Yes, well, that’s rather the point.”

“To not be angry?”

“To not think,” John says. “God, you’d think you’d never been drunk before.” Sherlock is silent. John looks at him, incredulous. “You haven’t, have you?”

Sherlock shrugs, not meeting his gaze. “I prefer stimulants.”

“Oh, right. Brain constantly running a million kilometres an hour, can’t imagine why you wouldn’t want to speed it up a bit.”

There is a long silence—a comfortable, companionable quiet rather than the more recent awkward pauses that have been plaguing them. John takes his phone out of his pocket, checking it for messages. Nothing. _Naturally_. He sips his scotch, then presses the glass against his forehead, closing his eyes to savour the cool pressure against his warm skin.

“Does it help?” Sherlock asks. He shifts on the sofa, rearranging his limbs into something more like human posture, his back against the arm of the sofa, his knees drawn up against his chest.

“What’s that?”

Sherlock nods toward the glass. “Three glasses in, and you’re still checking your phone.”

“Yeah.” John sighs, leaning back and letting his phone fall into his lap. “Habits, I guess. Or wishful thinking.”

“You want to speak to her?”

“I want…” He hesitates, Mary’s tear-streaked face swimming into focus behind his closed eyes. Christ. A few days ago, he wanted nothing more than to disappear into Mary’s world. Did he know, even then—had he realised how much of himself he’d kept from her, how much he’d locked away?

 _You were already committed to someone else._ His memory blurs, Mary’s face sharpening, stretching, becoming Sherlock’s. The expression shifts from Mary’s quivering frown to the stiff, inscrutable mask Sherlock is so good at donning. But in his eyes…for a moment, when John pointed out the mark from the bullet, something moved in those eyes. In his mind, it moves again, the Sherlock’s pupils dilating, colour draining from his irises like sunlight from the sky, green fading to blue fading to grey. John shivers and opens his eyes. 

“I guess I don’t know what I want,” he finally manages. 

Sherlock is quiet, watching him, and John tenses, hoping he can’t read his thoughts on his face. Whatever he sees, whatever he knows, he doesn’t say anything, but instead turns his scrutiny to the photographs still pinned to the wall above them. Sherlock's eyes roam over the images, his lips tightening when he thinks John can’t see. 

“Tell me about him,” John says. 

Sherlock’s head remains tilted toward the wall, but his gaze slides toward John. “What?”

“Victor.”

“You said you weren’t going to ask.”

“That was before you told Lestrade I was moping about.”

“Ah.” Sherlock lets his feet fall to the floor, turning his back to the wall. “It’s not a very interesting story.”

John huffs a laugh. “And mine and Mary’s relationship is? Didn’t stop you from eavesdropping on our conversation.” When Sherlock looks startled, he laughs again, pointing out, “Most hospital corridors don’t smell of cigarette smoke. Not unless particularly nosy gits have been hanging about them.” 

Again, that flicker in Sherlock’s eyes—his hand twitching in his lap, an abortive motion that John can’t read. _Angry that I guessed right? Impressed?_ Sometimes, John thinks, he’d kill to have Sherlock’s ability to deduce people’s intentions. 

When Sherlock speaks, his voice is hardly above a whisper. His eyes are fixed on the fire, his hands clenched in his lap, presumably as a safeguard against further involuntary movement. 

“I met Victor my second year at university,” he says. “He was younger by a year, and he was…intelligent.”

“Intelligent?” asks John. “High praise, from you.”

“More than intelligent. Brilliant.” There is genuine admiration in his voice, and John feels a tug of something unpleasant in his chest. _Jealous?_ his mind whispers wickedly, and he drowns the thought in a gulp of scotch.

“So. Just your sort then.”

Sherlock’s head cocks to one side. “I’ve got a sort?”

“I don’t know. You seemed to like the Adler woman quite a bit.”

“Hmm.” He seems to consider this. “She was clever. Bit nicer than Victor, though, even with all the drugging and whipping.”

“Larger breasts, as well, I’d imagine.”

“There is that,” Sherlock chuckles.

John studies him. “Does it matter to you at all, then? Man or woman, I mean?”

Sherlock hesitates. "I...yes, it matters." Another pause, while he lets John think that one over. "But she _was_ interesting.“

Interesting. Right. What else would such a great mind find attractive, find intriguing, if not itself, reflected back in others? John feels that tug again, that sense that he is desperately…lacking. He shifts uncomfortably and looks away to hide a grimace. Why should he care whether or not Sherlock finds him interesting? 

_Take my hand, John. And John obeys, his pulse faster than their racing feet, his heart high and light with terror, and something sweeter, something he can’t quite name_ —

The memory is sharp and sudden, and even with the alcohol thinning his blood, John’s heart trips over itself. No. No no no no no. Whatever Mary thinks, it isn’t like that. And even if…but no, it’s not, and that’s what matters. No good thinking in hypotheticals. 

John coughs, aware that Sherlock is watching him. “Victor wasn’t very nice, then?” he asks.

Sherlock continues to stare at him, and John’s lungs seize in his chest—Sherlock’s scrutiny is a laser sweeping over him, and where it focuses in on him, it burns a hole straight through him. It’s alarming and uncomfortable and a sight more intoxicating than the scotch.

Then Sherlock’s gaze falls and John can breathe again. Sherlock turns his hands over, inspecting them as he speaks. “Victor was…well, like me, I suppose, although I didn’t really see it then. He was careless with his words. Even more careless with his actions. He cared about himself and little else.”

“And you still liked him?”

“It was slow. On my part, at least. I think…I think Victor saw it as a challenge. I don’t…it’s difficult for me. To care that way.” His gaze slinks toward John here, but John carefully does not look at him, instead watching from the corner of his eye until Sherlock looks back at his hands. 

“He studied me. Flattered me. Argued with me. He was…well, he wasn’t boring.” Sherlock falls silent again, a small, sad smile on his lips. When the silence stretches on, John wonders if he realises he’s stopped talking. 

“Not boring,” John repeats, and Sherlock jumps a bit, coming back from his thoughts. “It must be a bit more than that.” 

Sherlock raises an eyebrow in question, and John splutters, “Come on. You said yourself that Moran was clever. I don’t think he’d go to all this trouble—find someone, torture him, _murder_ him, just because you once thought he was _not boring_.”

John briefly replays the sentence, flinching as he hears the harshness of his own words, but Sherlock just inclines his head slightly, acceding the point. When he continues, he speaks slowly, as though he’s considering each word before saying it. “We were…involved…for two years. At first it was…it was good. At least, it was everything I imagined it was supposed to be. Mycroft said—” He stops short, glancing at John, who lifts his eyebrows in encouragement. “He said it was too dramatic, too volatile. Victor had a temper, and I…well, you know.”

John laughs softly. “Come off it,” he says, when Sherlock looks hurt. “It’s just…dramatic and volatile. Christ. Mycroft _has_ met you, hasn’t he?” The detective’s brow furrows, and John sighs. “Alright, I’m sorry. I am. It’s just…I needed to laugh. And I guess…it’s nice to know I’m not the only one who makes a mess of things.”

Sherlock studies him again, seeming to gauge his sincerity, and then abruptly his body relaxes, and he laughs as well. “You really ought to do something about that,” he says.

“Me?” John asks, incredulous. “And what would you suggest?”

Sherlock smiles. “I had to get myself a blogger to keep me out of trouble.” 

John suddenly feels a bit warm, but it’s the alcohol and the fire, surely, not a _blush_ that’s set his ears afire. “Right,” he says, opting for sarcasm. Safer. “And now your blogger can’t manage to hold down a girlfriend. No woman in the world wants to compete with Sherlock Holmes.” He raises his glass in a mock toast.

Sherlock snorts, unashamed. “Of course not. You _have_ met me. Who could compete?”

“God.” In spite of himself, John laughs. “You are…”

“Brilliant. Fantastic.”

“Annoying.”

For a moment, they are both lost to quiet giggles. When John can catch his breath, he says, “Alright then. You said it was good at first. So what happened?”

“Why are so determined to know about him?”

“Why are you so determined not to tell?”

Sherlock sighs. “Just because you like to wallow in your misery doesn’t mean the rest of us feel compelled to do so.”

“Oh, yes, and you’ve been lying on the sofa thinking about rainbows and butterflies for the last hour?”

That earns him a glare. “It didn’t end well.”

“No relationship ends well. Not if at least one of you actually cared.”

“One of us did.” Sherlock leans forward, long fingers steepled against his lips. “That last night…Victor was good at reading people. Not as good as me...but then, I had a blind spot, when it came to him. He knew how to get what he wanted from people. And he knew how to hurt them.”

He falls silent again, staring at the fire. John’s chest tightens, watching the subtle play of emotions across his face. He remembers how he feared the Adler woman would use him, would hurt him—and here he was, already broken. John glances up at the wall, at the photos of the charred body. He’s been feeling pity for this victim, for the pain he must have endured, but now a cold rage settles in his belly. John thinks about the patch of burned skin that showed signs of healing, thinks about this man being tortured, and instead of feeling sick, he feels satisfied. _I hope it hurt_ , he thinks viciously, turning back to Sherlock. 

When he moves, he moves without hesitating, without thinking. His hand finds Sherlock’s arm and rests there, reassuring. “What did he say?” he asks.

Sherlock jumps a little at John’s touch, looking down at the hand on his arm. When his eyes meet John’s, though, they are still far away.

“The worst thing he could think of,” Sherlock whispers. “He told me the truth.”

“The truth?”

“That everyone will leave.”

“Sorry?”

Sherlock’s eyes focus on his face, a sad watercolour blue. “The way I am. I’ve tried to be different, but it’s not…It was too much for Victor, and he was just the same, or nearly. He wasn’t wrong. I’m just…too much.”

John’s grip on his arm tightens. “Sherlock. Don’t be ridiculous.”

“Ridiculous?” Sherlock’s gaze sharpens. “It’s not ridiculous. It’s fact. Repeated experimentation, duplicated results—hypothesis proven.”

“How can you say that to me? I’m—Christ, Sherlock, I’m _here_. I didn’t leave.”

Sherlock’s whole face seems to sigh, one elegant eyebrow arching, his wide lips relaxing into a soft frown. “You did, though,” he says. 

John is shaking his head before the words are even out of his mouth. “That isn’t fair. That is not… _You_ left, Sherlock. Not me.”

“I tried to warn you,” Sherlock says, seemingly ignoring him. “I told you not to make me something I wasn’t. I thought if you knew, if I was honest, if I was just me and you stayed anyway…you were supposed to be a _constant_ , John.” He says the word with reverence, says it the way a primitive man might speak the name of a god, like it is powerful and rare and almost too great to believe in.

“Sherlock…”

But Sherlock overrides him, lost in his spiralling train of thought. “But you were a variable. The whole time, and I didn’t see it. The parameters changed, but a constant stays constant, that’s the whole point. But you didn’t—you changed when the conditions changed, and that’s—”

“Sherlock, stop it!” John’s fingers hurt where they are clenched around the Sherlock’s forearm. He forces them open, gripping the man’s head with both hands instead. “Stop it _now_.”

Sherlock squirms. “John, I—”

“No, shut up.” He tightens his grip on Sherlock’s head to hold him still. “Losing you was like…like losing a limb. Do you see that? You don’t get your leg blown off and think, ‘Ah well, what’s one leg more or less.’ It changes everything. I had to…I had to learn everything over again. And even if you’ve lost a leg, eventually you have to learn to get around again, because your choices are to adapt or die. So you adapt. I adapted.”

“And that’s—”

“I’m not _done_. Just because I adapted doesn’t mean I didn’t care. It’s not the same thing as leaving. I didn’t _choose_ to leave. You chose that. But do you think…God, Sherlock, do you think for even a second that a soldier who was offered his _leg_ back wouldn’t take it? No matter how he’d bloody well learned to get on without it?” John’s breath is catching in his throat, and he realises he is close to tears. The terrible tightness in his chest is back, squeezing at his ribs, his lungs, his heart.

Sherlock is still under his hands, the blue in his eyes darker than it was before. He's tense, frozen, studying John like he’s an equation and the fate of the universe depends on his solving it. _Well_ , John amends, _maybe not the fate of the universe. The fate of his next experiment, perhaps._

Because Sherlock is all the things he says he is: brilliant and selfish and arrogant and off-handedly cruel. But he is more than that; he is well-intentioned and vulnerable and—God help him—breath-taking, and how can he not see that? How can someone so insightful see so little truth about himself? And how can he believe, for even one instant, that someone as insignificant as John Watson could stand a chance in the face of all that?

“I’m _here_ ,” he manages to whisper. “God, you walk back into my life, you tear down everything I’ve managed to build, and I _let_ you, Sherlock. I let you do it, because…because none of it means anything if you’re not…because you…”

Maybe John should be surprised by what comes next, by the subtle shift in Sherlock’s body language. But with his eyes fixed on Sherlock’s, his hands holding Sherlock's head hard enough to hurt, he can only sit, frozen, as he leans forward. And John could blame the whisky or the firelight or the emotional exhaustion of the last week. But in the moment, he doesn’t blame anything, because all he wants to do is make Sherlock see what he sees—and if words aren’t enough to convince him, well, John Watson has always been better at action, anyway. He is pulling him closer without realising it, and by the time he does, he’s given up fighting.

He has time to remember, to wonder if his mouth will taste like red wine or black coffee—and then Sherlock closes the distance, and his thoughts trip over themselves in an undignified scramble. Sherlock’s lips part, slow and uncertain, and his hand moves against John’s arm. For a moment, John flounders, his conscious mind surfacing long enough to blare a warning— _this is a mistake, you don’t want this, you’ll spoil everything_. Then Sherlock’s fingers clench, tightening on his arm, and John’s internal monologue flat-lines loudly in his ears as his body responds, blood rushing away from his brain—much good it was doing him there, anyway—and toward other extremities, making it painfully clear that some part of him, at least, emphatically _does_ want this.

When Sherlock’s hand finds the back of his head, the tightness in John’s chest shatters and everything in him—his denial, his fear, God his whole _heart_ —just breaks. He kisses him the way a drowning man scrambles for air, the way a hungry man reaches for food—desperately and joyfully and like there will never be enough of him.

And Sherlock…God, those lips against his are pliant and willing, the tongue in his mouth eager. Sherlock kisses the same way he stares: like he is trying to memorise every detail. And John wants nothing except to let him, to open himself like a book, to let this man read every word, dog-earing pages, breaking his spine until he falls open to his favourite page. 

Sherlock pulls back suddenly, pressing his forehead against John’s, his breathing quick and shallow. John opens his eyes reluctantly, afraid of what he will see, afraid that looking will break the spell and everything will be ruined. 

“John…?” They are still so close that John feels his name on Sherlock’s lips as much as he hears it. It’s a question and it isn’t, and John can see that the detective’s eyes are clouded with the same confusion—a vibrant, lustful green warring with a wary grey, the wide-blown pupils a dark no-man’s land in between. 

He doesn’t know how to answer, so he kisses him instead, pressing his lips once above each aristocratic eyebrow, once against one high cheekbone, once where his jaw joins his throat. Sherlock’s eyelids flutter closed, and he snaps them open again.

“ _John_ ,” he says, more insistent. “You’re drunk.”

“A bit.” John’s lips are following the line of his throat, tracing it down to his collarbone. God, his _neck_. 

“And you’re not…ahhh.” Sherlock sighs when John latches on to soft skin in the hollow of his throat. His fingers tighten in John’s hair, his voice strained. “You like _women_.”

Well that’s true, but it hardly seems relevant at the moment. He knows Sherlock is offering him an out, but the fact is, now he’s started, he can’t stop himself—doesn’t want to stop himself, because when was the last time John Watson took something that he wanted just because he wanted it? And he _has_ wanted it, God. He didn’t realise how _much_ until that first taste—more tobacco smoke than coffee, but every bit as dark and dangerous as John imagined.

“Apparently not just at present,” he says, moving back up to toy with Sherlock’s ear, appreciating the way he shudders beneath his hands. 

“I just—oooh—you don’t have to—”

John pulls back enough to meet his gaze. “Sherlock.” He doesn’t want to ask, but damn him if he even knows anymore who is taking advantage of whom, and he’s not so drunk that he cares to go forcing himself on his best friend. “What do you want?”

“I don’t…” Sherlock is looking anywhere but at John, spiralling again, his brain switching into overdrive as he tries to play out every possible scenario in his head. 

“No,” says John, bringing his focus back to his face. “Right now. What am I to you?”

“Mine,” Sherlock says immediately, like it’s obvious, like John has asked him his name or the colour of chlorine gas or the atomic number of nitrogen. His eyes find John’s again, full of new certainty. 

“Mine,” he repeats, firmer. “My John.”

 _And what do I say to that, except—_ “Yes,” John murmurs, his hand around Sherlock’s neck like he’s holding on for dear life. “Yes, alright then.”

Sherlock pulls him close again, finding John’s mouth in the half-light, his tongue tracing the seam of his lips until they open, hungry. Sherlock’s hands are all around him, one arm reaching out to catch himself against the arm of the sofa as he pushes forward, driving John back. His other hand is still in the John's hair, fingers tugging, tangling, and John barely manages to stifle a moan. He lets Sherlock ease him back, lips still locked together, until he is propped against the sofa arm, Sherlock draped over him like the world’s boniest blanket.

John has never been so thoroughly kissed in his life. Sherlock is everywhere at once, his lips on John’s mouth, his neck—John’s sharp hiss of breath when he pauses to suck at the pulse point there is anything but dignified. But he is moving, always moving, his tongue finding new places, spots no medical journal would list as erogenous zones—but John may have to publish a few papers after this. Sherlock’s lips graze the cusp of his left ear, and a muscle in John’s leg spasms. Sherlock’s tongue dips below the collar of his shirt, and John’s fingers clench around dark curls.

At that motion, Sherlock’s hips jerk forward involuntarily, and John can feel him hard against his thigh, through the thin cotton of Sherlock's pyjama bottoms and the thicker fabric of his own jeans. A sound tears itself from his throat, something strangled and startled and gasping. Sherlock pushes back, studying John’s face.

“Not good?” he asks, his eyes bright, frantic. 

John makes himself take a deep breath. “Just…different. Sorry.”

“If you don’t want…”

“No, God.” The look on Sherlock’s face, the thought that he might stop, might go away—John does the most immediate thing he can think of to convince him to stay, thrusting up and against him so his own erection is apparent. “I want,” he says simply. “I’ve _wanted_. It’s just…new.”

Sherlock’s irises in the low light shrink abruptly, swallowed into the dark depths of his pupils, and he presses against John again, rolling his hips experimentally. This time the sound is more groan than anything, slipping between clenched teeth as John writhes beneath him. God, how long since someone bloody well _seduced_ him? Sexually, John has always been the aggressor, the instigator, and he’s easily the more experienced of the two. But in this moment he is on autopilot, rolling on instinct again, and instinct says Sherlock leads and he follows, because that is who they are.

So when Sherlock raises the stakes, his hand dropping to John’s lap to cup him, tracing his length through his jeans, John can only moan, unconsciously rutting against his palm, seeking friction. Sherlock’s hands slip beneath his jumper and tug it over his head, his long fingers fumbling with the buttons of his shirt, trying and failing to undo them without looking. 

After a moment of this, Sherlock loses his patience. “Damn this,” he mutters, pulling back from their kiss long enough to give one harsh pull, sending the last few buttons skittering across the floor.

“Sherlock! Be caref—”

Sherlock’s lips swallow his chastisement, and oh, hell. It’s only a bloody shirt. He works his own fingers under Sherlock’s t-shirt, splaying his fingers across the muscles of his back, the hard lines of his ribs—God, has the man eaten _anything_ in the last three years? He’s going to have to start monitoring that again, and he’ll have to do something about the smoking, and of course there’s—

 _Oh, God._ John’s thoughts stutter to a halt once more as Sherlock’s fingers, which have been busy at his chest, dip below the waistline of his jeans. He can’t help the way his cock throbs in response, and, pressed against him as he is, Sherlock can’t help but feel it. He shudders and digs his fingers into Sherlock’s skin, eyes shut tight, head falling backward with a dull thump as Sherlock undoes his zip. His internal monologue has made a triumphant return, but it’s not winning any awards for eloquence, spinning out a stream of curses that would make even his old Army mates blush. 

The room is shrinking around him, alcohol and lack of blood making his head feel light, the sheer unreality of the moment closing in on him as he feels his jeans loosened, his pants tugged down around his thighs, and even the warm air in the room feels cool against his burning skin as his cock is freed. 

John wonders if it’s too late to go back, if he _wants_ to go back—he needs Sherlock more than he’s ever needed anything, but he’s worried this is too fast, too much that’s new and frightening and vulnerable. If they do this, tomorrow will be different, and he still doesn’t know how. Sherlock is good at pretending—maybe it won’t be that different for him, but for John… _Oh hell._

Something warm and wet slides up his cock, and John’s eyes snap open, neck wrenching as he looks down. His _tongue_. Sherlock is bent over him, dressing gown sliding off one shoulder, his t-shirt hitched up around his abdomen, his hands on either side of John’s hips…and his tongue, caught for the moment between those appalling lips, resting against the glans of his penis. _Oh fucking Christing hell._ John’s head falls back again, his breath coming in shallow gasps. _No going back from that, I suppose._

“Sherlock…” The name comes out a broken whisper. Maybe, John thinks, maybe if he closes his eyes, if he just doesn’t look, he can pretend this is something else, pretend it’s not his best friend in his lap, doing things, really really incredible things to him. Which is a good theory, except he _can’t stop looking_ , can’t take his eyes off of him. 

Sherlock swirls his tongue once around the head of his cock, drawing a sharp hiss from John, and Christ how could John have ever thought he didn’t know much about the practice of sex? Because whether it’s instinct or experience, Sherlock has hardly touched him, and John is ruined. “God, Sherlock, please.”

“Please?” Sherlock purrs. Yes, he bloody well _purrs_ , sounding so satisfied with himself that John wants to slap him. “Please what?”

But John just shakes his head. He can’t say it aloud, can’t find words for what he wants—not tonight, not yet. His hips thrust up, straining for contact, and he says again, more desperate, “ _Please_.”

And at least sometimes Sherlock’s magnifying lens of a mind is a blessing, because he seems to get the point. He licks another long stripe up John’s length, and then, without further preamble, takes him into his mouth. 

John has seen a thousand incarnations of Sherlock Holmes: Sherlock angry, Sherlock pretending to be sad, Sherlock _actually_ sad, Sherlock delighted, Sherlock naked and wrapped in a sheet, like some particularly statuesque 12-year-old, Sherlock in a panic as he strips explosives from the doctor in a darkened swimming pool—but Sherlock Holmes giving a blowjob is putting all the rest to shame. His dark curls, always unruly, are absolutely everywhere, sticking up and out where John’s hands have carded through them. His skin in the firelight is glowing golden, the tendons in his neck emphasising the graceful curve of his throat. And his eyes—lowered, focused, but every so often he glances up at John through dark lashes, just a flash of translucent green, softer than usual, still calculating, still precise, but clouded with desire.

And his tongue—someone ought to be writing the man poems about the thing. He can feel it curling around him as the detective works, sometimes flat against the underside of his cock, sometimes sweeping across the head, always moving, always teasing, responding to every moan and twitch he makes. John has a vague memory of an old science-fiction movie about a robot that learned its enemy’s tactics as it fought; this is the closest thing he can think of to what Sherlock is doing, bloody well _learning_ him as he goes.

Just the thought of that, that Sherlock is applying that high-powered scrutiny to giving John Watson a blowjob, makes him moan again. One hand moves to brace himself against the sofa, and the other finds Sherlock’s hair and holds on tight. “Christ, Sherlock, your _mouth_.”

He can’t help but thrust, hips pushing forward of their own accord, and the motion surprises Sherlock, making him gag. He pulls off for a moment, glaring at John, who blushes. “Sorry, I didn’t…”

Sherlock doesn’t answer, but adjusts his position instead, straddling John’s leg. He places one of his hands against John’s hip—John realises Sherlock will be able to read him better this way, to know when the thrusts are coming, and God, does the man ever stop thinking? Then the fingers of the other hand wrap around the base of John’s cock, and he forgets to feel anything except worship for this man. Sherlock squeezes experimentally, smiling when John groans. “Ahhh…Oh, God.”

That hand strokes him once, twice, those fingers rolling his foreskin over the head of his penis, teasing—and then Sherlock lowers his head again, and John isn’t sure what he’s doing until he feels wet warmth against his balls, and _shit_ , that tongue is back, and it fucking well knows what it’s doing. 

“Sherlock, Jesus,” John sighs, and Sherlock huffs a laugh that tickles wickedly against the damp skin of his perineum. His cock twitches in response, and Sherlock stops teasing, taking John into his mouth again. He sets a steady rhythm this time, his hand on John’s length making up for what his mouth can’t accommodate. Which isn’t much, incidentally—John’s vision is whiting out at the edges as he feels himself against the back of Sherlock’s throat, and _God_ , his hand slides down to the long neck, his fingers under Sherlock’s jaw so he can feel it when he swallows reflexively around him, and if it wasn’t for the alcohol slowing his body’s reactions, John would come _right now_. 

As it is, he’s left half gasping, half sobbing for air, a string of something unintelligible spilling from his lips. “Oh God please Sherlock yes oh _please_.” He thrusts again, deep, and again Sherlock takes him, holding until his throat convulses and he has to pull off to breathe. John’s hands tug at his hair, guiding him upward, and he claims his lips in a crushing kiss, tasting himself on Sherlock’s tongue, and Christ, that’s going to be part of Sherlock’s taste now in his memory, isn’t it? 

John shifts on the sofa, pulling his leg upward, and his thigh brushes against Sherlock’s groin, drawing a low moan from him. _Ah_ , thinks John, grinning inwardly and moving his leg again. _All your teasing, let’s see how you like it, then._

Sherlock likes it very much, as it happens, and John has to wonder how long it’s been since anyone has touched him like this, since anyone has dared to try. He works to ignore a welling panic in his chest—his mind still struggling with the thought of another man’s cock against his leg—but then Sherlock presses against him, his breath coming fast, his eyes finding John’s again, and Christ, his face is _open_ , guileless, and John realises it’s not that no one has dared to try—it’s that Sherlock hasn’t let anyone get close. 

The weight of that thought settles on his shoulders, and something must show on his face, because Sherlock’s brow furrows. “What is it? Too much? We don’t have to—”

John silences him with a kiss, gentler this time, soft and slow and achingly sweet. When he pulls back, Sherlock looks surprised. 

“What was that for?” he asks.

“Just…” He trails off, not sure how to finish. “Just needed doing, I suppose.”

Another kiss, and this time when Sherlock presses against him, his cock still hard and hot against John’s thigh, John’s mind doesn’t recoil. His hands wander, trailing down Sherlock’s back, pulling his ridiculous dressing gown off his shoulders and casting it aside. John shifts downward so that their hips are aligned, so that when he thrusts upward their cocks slide together, both of them shuddering at the friction. John tugs at the cotton pyjama bottoms still slung low on the Sherlock’s hips.

“These—”

“—half a minute—”

“Sherlock, you’re not—ow!” Sherlock is all elbows and knees, and by the time he’s done removing the offending article of clothing, John has several bruises already beginning to show. He’d be more annoyed if he weren’t so distracted by the sudden surplus of skin on skin, and how can a man who seems so perpetually cold radiate so much _heat_? Sherlock is so alive in his hands, so overwhelmingly solid and real; John can only kiss him—his lips, his neck, his shoulder, his hair.

Sherlock’s hand slips between them, impossibly long fingers taking him, taking them both, moving in languid strokes, his slim hips rising and falling in time with his hand. The combined sensation of those fingers—unnatural, they are, honestly—and the soft-hard throb of Sherlock’s cock against his own, the slick of pre-come between them, soon has John panting again, and never mind that it’s strange and different and new, it’s _fantastic_. He can’t control the wordless moan that spills from his lips or the entirely shameless way he ruts into that grasp, straining for more friction, more touch—

“God, Sherlock,” he gasps, “I need—”

“Yes—” 

Sherlock’s fingers retreat, and John groans again at their loss until they’re replaced by his mouth. There’s no playing this time, no prelude; Sherlock simply takes him, sucking hard and fast. John’s hands fist in his hair, hips rolling forward, needing—God, needing all of him. Sherlock's hand goes to his own cock, and the sight of it—Christ. Two strokes, three, and then Sherlock is coming, his rhythm on John’s cock faltering as he trembles. His semen spills hot over his fingers and onto John’s thigh, the lines of his body relaxing, his breath against John’s cock ragged. A low moan builds in his throat, vibrating to John’s core, and that does it.

“Oh, fuck. I’m going to—” It’s not much of a warning, but it’s all John can manage. Sherlock looks up at him, blinks—and does not pull off, but takes him even deeper, and _fucking hell_ , John just lets go. He comes hard, holding onto Sherlock’s head like it will save him, like it will stop him from falling apart. 

When he comes back to himself, he is draped over Sherlock, breathing hard, feeling lighter and stranger and more exhausted than he can ever remember feeling. Sherlock is wiping them both down with his shirt, crumpling it into a ball and letting it fall to the floor.

“Right,” John says. “And I suppose it’s down to me to do the wash?”

Sherlock cocks an eyebrow at him. “Obviously. But not until tomorrow, I think.”

Tomorrow. Yes, that’s a better idea. He slides down, his head resting on the arm of the sofa. Sherlock rises, naked and lovely in the firelight, and John is too tired to ask where he’s going as he disappears from sight. His eyelids drift shut, then fly open again as a weight settles over him. His fingers twitch, finding fabric, and he glances down to find himself draped in the blanket from Sherlock’s bed.

“Sherlock—” He reaches a hand out in the half-light. Sherlock is standing over him, half turned as if he’s heading back to his bedroom. “Here,” says John, raising a corner of the blanket.

“I won’t fit.”

“Bollocks,” John says decisively. He scoots as far as he can toward the back cushions, still raising the blanket invitingly. Still, Sherlock hesitates. “Come on then, lanky git. The fire’s dying and it’s bloody cold in here.”

That makes Sherlock snort, and he gives in, lying down next to him and folding his limbs around John’s body to keep himself in place. John drops the blanket over him, the chemicals from his orgasm blending with the alcohol in his bloodstream and forming a blissful fog that steals over his consciousness. He presses his face into Sherlock’s hair.

“John…” Sherlock’s voice is hardly a whisper.

“Mmm?”

But Sherlock doesn’t answer, and John falls asleep to Sherlock’s thumb tracing an arc over his ribs—back and forth, back and forth, like a metronome, like a heartbeat.

***

_Sherlock is limp, a parody of sleep, only the halo of blood and the fierce blue of his staring eyes giving away the lie. John’s fingers fumble at his wrist, seeking a pulse point, and he’s warm, his skin is still warm, and maybe—but there are too many hands pulling him away, and his legs don’t want to hold him anymore._

_“It’s just a trick.” Sherlock’s voice, and when John looks, he is grinning at him from the ground. It’s a skull’s grin—it never touches his eyes. “A magic trick, John. Isn’t it clever?”_

_John's stomach lurches, his lungs collapsing in on themselves._

_“I didn’t mean it,” says the Sherlock-skull. “No one could be that cruel.”_

_John’s cheek is against the pavement, the crowd all around him, pinning him, crushing him, sharp knees and elbows digging into his skin and leaving marks._

 _“You could,” he whispers._

John opens his eyes in the dark sitting room, his lungs burning like he has been underwater for hours. His bad leg is aching, the dull, rhythmic pulses of pain providing a harmonic counterpart for the pounding headache behind his eyes. He’s not wearing his watch, but it’s roughly oh-dark-thirty, some ungodly hour of morning, and Jesus, he needs water.

He moves to get up and is halted by a dead weight on his chest. He looks down to find Sherlock’s arm draped across him, his head heavy on his shoulder. His heart does some sort of gyration behind his ribs, going all twisty for a moment as the details of his evening crystallise in his memory. 

_Good Christ. I had sex with Sherlock Holmes last night._

Now his stomach joins his heart, making twirly little loops in his belly. He feels dizzy. Not bad, not precisely, just…fuck. 

He extracts himself from Sherlock’s grasp as gently as he can. Sherlock’s hair is a sweaty clump where it was pressed against him, while his feet, sticking out the bottom of the blanket, are freezing. Lucky for John, when the world’s only consulting detective finally decides he can spare a moment for sleep, he does so with the same enthusiasm as he might dissect a particularly fascinating cadaver. He snores once when John stands up, then rolls himself into the blanket, immediately occupying the John-shaped space on the sofa. 

John stands beside him for a moment, the chill of the room raising gooseflesh on his arms and legs. Even with his organs playing bloody ring-around-the-rosies, John can’t help but smile. The man is even selfish when asleep. Selfish and horrid and obnoxious and just…kind of great, really. 

His knees have joined the general discombobulation of the rest of his body, and John leans on the arm of the sofa for a moment, trying to take a deep breath and failing. 

_Bad, John. Really, truly not good at all._ But why? John tries to close his eyes and conjure up his emotions from hours ago, to feel nothing except excited and frightened and fucking well victorious, because sex with Sherlock fucking Holmes was rather a momentous achievement, thank you very much. 

So why is he…terrified is the word for it, if he’s honest. He’s scared out of his mind. But why now?

 _Because he’ll hurt you_ , says Reasonable John. _Because he did it once, and he’ll do it again, because he can’t bloody well help himself._

 _He apologised_ , John argues back.

_And the next time? The next time he leaves? Could you do it again, another few years without a word?_

_He wouldn’t._

_You can’t lie to anyone, John Watson, let alone yourself._

_He couldn’t. He does care, you know. I saw it._

_For now,_ says Reasonable John. _What will he do, I wonder, when he remembers you’re just ordinary? Just boring old John Watson, card-carrying idiot._ Reasonable John, it turns out, is really quite a prat.

He rubs at his chest, still straining to breathe. Christ, the cold isn’t helping. He needs…God, he needs water, and he needs air, and he needs them _now_. 

John fumbles in the dark for his pants, pulling them on, then finds his jeans and his shirt and puts those on as well. He makes his way into the kitchen, pours himself a glass of water, and drinks it in one swallow. Then it’s back to the sitting room for his jumper. He finds his socks and shoes by the door, near his coat. 

By the time he opens the door, his vision is blurring, and he’s not sure if it’s lack of oxygen or excess of emotion. He just knows he needs out. John closes the door behind him, and the night swallows him up.

***


	10. You Won't Feel A Thing, Pt. 1

_So lay your cuts and bruises over my skin_  
_I promise you won’t feel a thing_  
_Cause everything the world could throw_  
_I’ll stand in front, I’ll take the blow for you_  
_________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

_“You walk back into my life, you tear down everything I’ve managed to build, and I let you do it…”_

_John’s hands around his head, John’s fingers in his hair. His eyes are wide, frantic, his voice rising in a way that Sherlock recognises—it’s the same tone he uses himself when he can’t make everyone see what he sees, when someone is refusing to notice what’s in plain sight._

_The blue of John’s eyes is black in the firelight, and Sherlock can almost hear the thrum of his pulse—elevated—and Sherlock tells himself it’s just curiosity that makes him lean forward, just an experiment. But John doesn’t fight him, doesn’t even try._

_Instead, John’s mouth opens to him, and whatever pretence Sherlock is hiding behind falls away, because hell, John isn’t lying. He_ needs _\--and Sherlock, so accustomed to being merely tolerated, is struck by how very much he wants to be needed. His fingers wrap around John’s arm, possessive, he feels him surrender, and that does it—a flash of something burns through him, brighter than a magnesium flame, sudden and hot and desperate. God, he hasn’t felt—hasn’t wanted—not like this, not since Victor._

_John tastes of tea and scotch and steel, and he’s nothing like what Sherlock’s wanted before. He’s not brilliant; he’s not special—but he is somehow both, and the steadiness of him, his belief, is overwhelming in its simplicity. Sherlock shivers, his lips leaving John’s mouth and trailing over his neck, marking him, claiming him, like a promise. A constant, he thought him once. And it feels like truth when John whispers his name._

It’s the cold that wakes Sherlock. He groans and stretches on the sofa, then immediately recoils when his feet hit the frigid air of the room. Curling into the foetal position, he draws the blanket tighter about himself, reaching for John—

 _John_. Images of the previous night flood his consciousness, triggering a release of serotonin that floods his body with pleasant warmth. He spreads his fingers under the blanket, seeking warm skin, and shivers a little when he finds only upholstery. The warmth radiating through him subsides. No John. He opens one eye. Early morning sunlight is streaming in through the sitting room windows, and he is alone on the sofa. 

_He’s an early riser. Probably just didn’t want to wake me._ The thought does not ease the icy fingers twisting themselves into his gut. He wraps the blanket around himself and sits up, all senses online.

There’s no scent of cooking breakfast or brewing coffee, no groaning of water pipes to suggest John is grabbing a shower. His clothes are gone, but Sherlock’s are still lying about, and John Watson is not the type of man to leave soiled pyjamas lying in the sitting room floor, not unless—

Sherlock glances at the door, and the cold fingers in his belly clench into a tight fist. John’s shoes are gone, and his coat. _No._ His brain tries to simultaneously implode and explode, resulting in a sort of chaotic stasis that leaves him unable to stand but incapable of sitting still. His fingers grip the blanket, knuckles white.

 _I told you, John. I told you they leave, and you said…you promised—_ Except that’s not fair, because he didn’t promise, not really. But surely he knew? Knew what it cost Sherlock to do…Hell, but how would he know? _I asked! I asked if it was too much, and he said! He said he wanted it. He wasn’t lying. I would know if he was lying._

 _Do you know what the worst thing is that can happen to a man, Sherlock?_ This time it’s Victor’s voice in his head. _The worst thing a man can get, Sherlock, is exactly what he wants. That will break a man. And what did you do? You gave him what he wanted._ Sherlock pushes the thought aside—it’s useless. 

There are logical reasons for John to be gone. Perhaps they’re out of milk—but no, Mrs. Hudson brought some on Sunday. Was he taken? Moran implied that he could reach Sherlock anywhere. A quick glance around the flat, a re-evaluation of the clues, discourages this theory. Nothing is out of place, aside from Sherlock’s pyjamas on the floor and the remains of John’s dinner. There are no signs of a struggle. A walk, then. John could just be out for a walk. At half six in the morning. With a mass murderer hunting him. 

Sherlock rockets to his feet, letting the blanket fall and pacing anxiously across the sitting room. Damn him! What the devil was he thinking? 

_He wasn’t thinking. He just needed to get out, to get away._ The thought stings so sharply that Sherlock sucks in his breath, tangling his hands in his hair. He is _not_ thinking of Victor standing in the rain, smirking and vicious and absolutely vindicated.

Sherlock goes to the door, fumbling through his coat pockets until he finds his phone. No missed calls, no texts. His fingers fly across the screen. 

_6:34 AM  
Where are you? –SH_

_6:35 AM  
Come home. It isn’t safe. –SH_

_6:37 AM  
John. Please. –SH_

Sherlock forces himself to stop typing. Sending more messages isn’t going to make John reply faster. _If he can reply at all,_ his mind supplies darkly. Sherlock shakes himself. He has to act, to move.

He is shrugging into his coat before he remembers that he’s still nude. Cursing, he storms into his bedroom to dress, keeping his phone on hand, because John may text: _Stop worrying, you silly git, I’ve just…_ Sherlock can’t even finish the fantasy, because too many horrible possibilities are presenting themselves to his well-informed imagination. God, John has to be all right. Angry, regretful, even disgusted—fine. Just not hurt, or worse. 

By the time Sherlock makes it out the door, the icy tendrils of dread have spread from his belly, twining viciously around his heart. 

*** 

“Sherlock, you’d better have a damn good reason for calling before I’ve even had my first cup of—”

“John is gone.”

“Christ.” Lestrade’s irritation fades immediately. “How long?”

Sherlock closes his eyes, calculating. The cushions were cold when he awoke; John had already been gone for some time. “I’m not sure,” he says at last. “A few hours, maybe. Sometime after midnight.”

“And you don’t know where he went?”

“I’d hardly be calling you if I did.”

“Right.” A pause, then: “I don’t understand. He knows what’s at stake here. Why’d he leave? Why in the middle of the night? You don’t think—”

“He left willingly.” Sherlock can’t keep a hint of bitterness from his voice. He hopes it’s bitterness—neediness is so undignified.

“He wouldn’t be that stupid, surely.”

“Apparently his stupidity exceeds previous estimations.”

Lestrade’s voice is suddenly suspicious. “Did something happen? I mean, did you do something? Upset him, maybe?”

“I didn’t…” Sherlock takes a deep breath. “I don’t know.”

For a marvel, Lestrade doesn’t push the subject. “What do you need from me?” he asks after a moment. 

“Check his flat. I’ll check Mary’s. And then…hell, I don’t—”

“If he’s not there, I’ll try work. I’ll get my guys on it. Sherlock? We’ll find him.”

Sherlock’s hand grips the phone until his fingertips are white. “Please,” is all he can say.

***

“Yes, alright! Leaning on the bell is hardly going to make it—oh. You?” The surprise is evident on Mary’s face when she answers her door, and something sinks in Sherlock’s chest.

“He’s not here.” It’s not a question.

“He’s not—” Mary’s brow furrows. “John? Why would he be here? He’s not with you?”

“He was. He…he left.”

She studies him, and he’s alarmed to find he can’t read her expression. “You said you didn’t want him out of your sight.”

“I didn’t. I don’t. I—” He makes himself stop, clenching his teeth. “He didn’t exactly ask my opinion.” 

“No. John wouldn’t…” Mary sighs suddenly, rubbing a hand across her eyes. “But I guess I wouldn’t know, would I?”

He takes out a cigarette, struggling with his lighter, his hands trembling. 

“God,” Mary says, “he really is in trouble, isn’t he?”

Sherlock, still fumbling with the lighter, spares her a half-hearted glare. 

“No, obviously. Stupid question. But—look at you. You’re a bigger mess than he was.”

That makes Sherlock pause. Mary takes the lighter from his slackened grasp, thumbing it to life. He lights his cigarette, and they watch each other carefully. 

“You don’t know what you did to him,” Mary says quietly. “The whole time I’ve known him, it’s like he was asleep. And then you showed up, and he—he just woke up. I think—I don’t know. He cares about you, you know.”

_John arches his back beneath him, and Sherlock can feel him hard and wanting, and God, how has he done this? How has this ordinary man made him greater, made him more? John is watching him with a curious expression, something like sadness, something like responsibility. He pulls Sherlock close and kisses him—and there is no hunger in it this time. John isn’t taking anything with this kiss, he is only giving, and no one has ever kissed Sherlock like this before. Every motion of John’s lips is an offering, and something Sherlock didn’t even know was aching is suddenly at ease._

_“What was that for?” he asks when John finally pulls away._

_“Just needed doing, I suppose.”_

_Sherlock doesn’t stop breathing, his heart doesn’t stop beating, but something in him is dying just the same. It’s a terrifying sensation, and he hides his face in John’s neck so he won’t see it in his eyes._

Sherlock’s eyes close against the memory, and he takes a long drag on his cigarette, remembering at the last moment to exhale away from Mary’s face. The smoke stutters strangely, his breath as unsteady as his hands.

“You care, too,” says Mary. “I can see it.”

“He’s my friend.” _My only friend, the best I’ve ever had. He’s mine. He’s my John._

“Mr. Holmes…Sherlock.” She hands him back his lighter, and he can see the unshed tears in her eyes. “These people you mentioned before…you think someone took John?”

Another drag while he decides how to answer this. “He left on his own,” he says at last. “But he’s not answering my texts, and he’s been gone for hours. Either he’s angry with me, or he’s…” He can’t finish the thought.

“Angry with you? I doubt it.”

He snorts and says nothing, every line of his body shouting contempt for this statement. 

Mary draws herself up, filling the doorway as much as she can with her tiny frame. “Don’t. He said you do that.”

“Do what?”

“Treat everyone else like they’re idiots.”

“They usually are.”

“Well, I might not be a genius, but I’m not wrong. Ignoring you because he’s angry? That’s not John. I might not know all of him, but I know that. He was furious with you when he found out you were alive. He didn’t ignore you then.”

Cigarette smoke curls from Sherlock’s slightly parted lips where he’s forgotten to close his mouth. A grudging part of him can see—vaguely—why John may have liked this one. For an ordinary person, she’s…well, not _bright_. But somewhat less lacklustre than the rest.

Unfortunately, her logic also confirms what he already knows, what he’s known since he awoke, if he’s honest. Wherever John is, he is not okay. He can see it on Mary’s face that she’s followed this train of thought to its destination.

Her fingers pull at his sleeve, and he freezes at the touch. “Sorry,” she says, pulling her hand back. “Just…find him. Please. He’s…I know he isn’t mine to worry about anymore, but he’s still the best man I’ve ever known.”

 _John’s heartbeat under his hand, John’s taste in the back of his throat. Sherlock brushes his thumb across John's skin, self-regulating, trying to calm the strange, sweet terror that has settled in his stomach. He’s awake for a long time after John has nodded off, thumb tracing a rhythm, fingers twitching across imaginary strings, comforting himself by composing a melody to the time signature of John’s breathing._

Sherlock puts his lighter back in his pocket, for the first time feeling a twinge of pity for Mary. “Yes,” he says, and he leaves.

***

John opens his eyes to darkness, and the first thing he thinks is, _Not again._ Knowing Sherlock has taught him firsthand that no good ever comes of waking up in a strange place with only a pounding headache to suggest how you got there.

Not that he was very keen on the idea of getting kidnapped by murderous psychopaths to begin with.

He shifts, and has to swallow a scream—his limbs are all in various stages of numbness, and when he moves, pain lances through his stiff muscles. He focuses on taking deep breaths, trying to flood his body with oxygen, to raise his heart rate and increase his circulation. Slowly, the stabbing pains in his arms and legs give way to a constant, unwavering ache. John lets his eyes adjust to the dimness, taking stock of his situation.

He’s in a small room, seated on a hard wooden chair. _Bound_ to the chair, he realises, finding restraints at his wrists and ankles—thin, plastic, not digging into his skin, but tight enough keep him in place—and thicker belts around his forearms and chest that feel like leather. Aside from that, he’s wearing…nothing at all. As his eyes adjust further, he can see thin wires taped along his limbs and torso. His gaze follows their serpentine lines, but they disappear into the gloom of the room.

 _Brilliant,_ he thinks, and shivers a little. _Just bloody fantastic._ But the sarcasm is a refuge against the welling panic in his gut. This is so very not good.

He tries to remember what happened, to decide how long he’s been out. The previous night comes to him in a series of sensations and still images: he can remember the way Sherlock’s weight felt against his chest, sleeping. He remembers waking, his lungs crying out for air, and he remembers leaving. He remembers turning the corner from Baker Street to Marylebone, and he has a vague recollection of something heavy colliding with him from behind, a pinch at his neck, hot breath against his cheek, and then…nothing. 

God, he’s an idiot.

 _Too kind. Complete fucking bell-end, more like._ And almost simultaneously, he thinks, _Christ, Sherlock. I’m sorry._

Footsteps. John makes himself sit up straight and still, trying to ignore the way his heart hammers in his chest as the doorknob turns. The door opens, and John can see a dark silhouette outlined against a bit of corridor lit by wan grey daylight. Then the figure’s arm moves and two bare light bulbs flare to life on the ceiling, making John flinch in spite of himself. He blinks, squinting up at the man who enters the room.

He is built somewhat like Sherlock, not strikingly tall, but with a lean frame that gives him the illusion of height. His dark hair wants cutting, the ends curling slightly around his ears, but the set of his spine, the subtle rigidity in his movements read military. Not that John needs to read him. He knows exactly who this is.

“Captain. Nice to see you awake,” says Moran. A faint Irish lilt clings to his voice, making it sound warm, but that warmth never touches his eyes. John stares at him and says nothing.

Again, the lower half of the man’s face remains amicable, disarming, while the upper half is cold and calculating. John feels gooseflesh ripple across his arms as Moran smiles. 

“Don’t feel like talking? Shame. I’ve so been looking forward to meeting you.” He circles around the chair, and John's eyes track his movement. With the lights on, John can see that the walls are padded with soundproofing material. The wires attached to his body are clearly visible now, but they lead to a point somewhere behind him, outside the range of his vision. John tries not to think about what they might be connected to.

Moran continues circling, talking as he goes. “We have a lot in common, you and I. We’re both military men—strong sense of duty. Loyal.” He pauses, leering down at John unpleasantly. “Both have a bit of a thing for the mad genius type, eh?”

John just glares at him, and Moran takes a step back, laughing. “Oh, Captain Watson! Jim was right about you. That stubborn streak—he always said it was adorable. Bit condescending, but that was Jim’s way. Now me, I think it’s admirable. It’s a soldier’s stubbornness—that’s what keeps the good ones alive. Not talent, not bravery, just honest-to-Christ bull-headedness.” 

The man moves so he is behind John, and John can hear the scrape of a chair against the wooden floor as Moran presumably sits down. 

“I like you, Captain, let me make that clear,” says Moran. “My fight is not with you. You and I…we’re pawns. Your friend, Mr. Holmes, he thinks he’s won the game because he killed the king—and maybe he has, at that. But this pawn is alive and well, and your man has a murder to answer for.”

“Suicide,” John corrects him. He was trained to remain silent, not to offer information, to recite his name, rank, and serial number in response to an interrogation. But in spite of the obvious threat of torture, Moran is _not_ interrogating him. John isn’t sure how to categorise what the man is doing. Monologuing at him, maybe. 

“What was that?” says Moran from behind him. 

John clears his throat, his voice hoarse. “Suicide, actually. Moriarty killed himself.”

A snort. “And you suppose Holmes had nothing to do with that? You’re a lot of things, Captain—I didn’t take you for an idiot.”

John has nothing to say to that. Sherlock did say he’d—how had he phrased it?— _tipped the scales_.

“You’ve got a funny way of showing you like people,” he says, changing the subject. “Do you always go around doing…what was that you gave me, anyway? Bit more exotic than my HBV jabs.”

“Thiopentone. One of your RAMC mates taught me that one. If I didn’t like you, I’d have used the chloroform. I thought I’d spare you some of the headache.”

John can’t keep the sarcasm from his voice. “Cheers. Naked tied to a chair is much more comfortable.”

“Well, you have dear departed Mr. Trevor to thank for the naked bit.” Moran’s tone becomes thoughtful. “Did you know, Captain, that electrocuting someone with their clothes on can actually make them _catch fire_?”

Images flood John’s mind: charred skin, raw and rippled from flame. He shivers. “Why?” he asks quietly. “Why him? Why me? Why would you—”

There is no warning. His mind goes white, every muscle in his body contracting at once, and his back arches off the chair, straining against his bonds. His teeth snap shut, and it takes him a moment to realise the high-pitched whine that suddenly fills the room is coming from his throat.

It’s only seconds, but when it ends, John collapses back into the chair, panting. The white dissolves to red, then to black around the edges as his whine becomes a whimper, faint and thin against the backdrop of Moran’s voice, which rolls on in its cheerful baritone.

“You are wired to the mains, Captain,” the man says, almost gently. “For your own sake, I’d avoid stupid questions. Why, indeed. Surely you know the answer already.”

“W-why,” John echoes dumbly. He blinks, steadies himself, and ignores the way his left hand is suddenly trembling. “Because you—you think—we’re important.”

Moran murmurs his approval. “Important to him, yes. Mr. Trevor, now he was the stone what felled two birds, if you will. After Jim was gone, well, some of his clients tried to divvy up his empire for themselves. And that didn’t sit well with those of us who knew him best—when an artist dies, you don’t give his half-finished masterpieces to a gang of school kids with some finger paints. I needed to send a message to those clients, let them know their disrespect was not appreciated. And it just so happened that they had this friend—a pet barrister, keeping the lot of them out of trouble—and wouldn’t you know it, that barrister is the one time close personal friend of one Sherlock Holmes. _Very_ personal, if I’ve the right of it.”

John is still struggling to catch his breath, the muscles in his throat contracting painfully. “He—hates him.”

“Maybe. But he certainly doesn’t hate you, does he, Captain? And he had to wonder, if I got my hands on _one_ close, personal friend…well, it was only a matter of time before I got my hands on the other.”

John shakes his head minutely, clenching and unclenching his hand. 

“Don’t be thick,” says Moran. “The man’s already died for you once. He never did as much for poor Mr. Trevor.”

John’s brow furrows. “—the hell are you talking about?” he wheezes.

“ _Oh_.” There is genuine surprise in Moran’s voice. “He hasn’t told you, then? I’d have thought he’d be rabbitting on about it left and right. Not very modest, your Mr. Holmes.”

Silence, as a memory stirs in John—Sherlock’s features sullen with disappointment, Sherlock’s lips stubbornly closed. _You said you didn’t want to know why I faked my death._

“You never asked him why he jumped?” Moran presses, and John’s heart sinks into his stomach like a lump of lead, because he already knows what’s coming. 

_You know I’d never have done anything like this without a good reason._ But John had been too angry, too hurt to listen. Shame burns in his chest, and his breath escapes in a groan.

“I had you in my sights, you know,” says Moran, his voice closer, as if he’s leaning toward him. “That was the deal Jim made. Holmes jumped, or I got to pull the trigger.” He pauses, letting the weight of that settle on John. “Not just you, of course. Jim thought you would be enough, but I told him we needed insurance. The landlady he’s so fond of, and that pet DI of his. Their lives—and yours—in exchange for his.”

“No.” The word is a whisper, John’s head shaking now—not in denial of Moran’s words, but at his own blindness, his own hypocrisy; he, who claimed he’d never stop believing in Sherlock Holmes, how could he have doubted him? How could he not…not just _see_ what was so painfully obvious? 

It’s doubt that made him angry, doubt that made him afraid—scared that Sherlock would leave again, and if he’d _known_ , God, he’d never have left that sofa, nightmares be damned. The memory again, of Sherlock’s head against his chest, that maybe means nothing and maybe means everything, and John Watson has _left_ , just like Sherlock said he would.

Fucking hell.

Moran is still talking, relishing John’s obvious distress. “Yes, Captain. Imagine that. I’m not sure Jim would’ve believed it if he’d seen it. He thought Holmes would gamble his life—he values it, absolutely, but not over others, not over _yours_. But Holmes gambled his ego as well, didn’t he, letting himself be called a fake. Really quite big of him.”

_God, Sherlock. Sorry doesn’t cover the half of it._

“So you see, Captain, you’re really the key to everything. Jim knew it from the start—even before Holmes did, I reckon. He’s a bit of a blind spot when it comes to matters of the heart, wouldn’t you say?”

“This is insane,” John says, which isn’t exactly relevant, but it’s all his overwrought brain can come up with. He’s rewarded with a second jolt—this one stretching just a fraction of a second longer, a fraction of a second that breaks down into hours, months, decades, and when it finally subsides, John tastes blood in his mouth where he’s bitten his cheek.

“Ah,” says Moran as John half-heartedly spits a long line of pink saliva. A hand appears, brandishing a leather belt—John’s own, he realises. “Bite on this,” Moran instructs. “Another lesson you owe to Mr. Trevor.”

John’s head sags against his chest. “What do you want?” he mumbles through numbed lips.

“I thought that bit was obvious. I want Sherlock Holmes dead, Captain.”

“And how does— _this_ —help you?”

A world-weary sigh from Moran. “You can’t possibly be that naïve. This doesn’t help. It’s just for _fun_.” His voice curls around the last word like a contented kitten. “Although hurting you hurts Holmes, and that’s alright as well.”

“He doesn’t even—know where you are.”

“I’ve left him the clues. With your imminent danger to motivate him, I’m sure he’ll turn up soon enough. In the meantime, however...” He pushes the belt toward John’s face, insistent. “Let’s play, Captain.”

***

Sherlock’s mobile rings as he’s exiting the cab.

“Anything?” 

“No.” Lestrade’s voice is weary, even over the phone. “Not at Mary’s, then?”

Sherlock can’t keep the irritation from his tone. “Obviously.”

Lestrade sighs. “Look, I’m trying to help. John’s a mate, alright?” 

Sherlock knows this is true, but it does nothing to stem the rising flood of his anxiety. As a rule, Sherlock does not traffic in the hypothetical, but the choices that led him here are spread before him like an intricate web, and he can’t help but wonder how the pattern would be different if he’d been more careful, if he’d seen the repercussions. He says nothing, his gaze sweeping the street around him.

“Where are you?” Lestrade asks. 

“Bart’s. I need to go over the clues again. He’s told us where he is, I’m sure of it.”

“What, John? How do you—”

“Moran.”

“Okay, right. And who in the _actual fuck_ is Moran?” 

“Your killer. One of Moriarty’s agents. He wants me to find him.”

The silence on the other end of the phone is not exactly accusing, but Sherlock winces anyway. If he’d told Lestrade sooner, would it have helped? _Unlikely. Moran’s too smart for the Yard; they’d have missed the bullet clue completely._ The thought draws another grimace from Sherlock, because he hasn’t fared much better with that clue. 

When Lestrade speaks again, his voice is dangerously low. “Anything else I should know? Think carefully, Sherlock. Because if something…well, let’s just say I’m not keen on the chief superintendent having to get involved over an inquiry into the disappearance of _my friend_.”

The way his stomach turns, like he might be sick—is that guilt? Regret? It’s uncomfortable, but a cutting remark will right him again…except Sherlock can’t seem to summon one. “I’ll have Mycroft send you the file,” he says, humbled by the tremor in his voice.

“Do that,” Lestrade says. Then, softer as he registers the apology in Sherlock’s tone, “You’ll let me know when you figure out the clue?”

Not _if_ , Sherlock notes. _When_. Another unfamiliar feeling stirs in him, rippling under his skin, easing the sour knot in his stomach, and he’s reasonably sure this one is gratitude. John is his best friend, his closest friend—but not his _only_ friend. 

“I will,” he promises.

“As soon as?”

A flash of irritation at having to repeat himself, but Sherlock suppresses it. “As soon as,” he agrees.

***


	11. You Won't Feel A Thing, Pt. 2

_And if I fall here_  
_At least you know, my dear_  
_That I would die for you_  
_________________________________________________________________________________________

Sherlock sits on the floor, back against one of the desks in the St. Bart’s lab, arms dangling loosely over his knees. A mug of coffee sits cold and forgotten on the desk above him, where Molly left it an hour before. Unable to draw any more information from the bullet, he has turned to his last and best resource: his memory. His fingers twitch and his eyes are focused inward as he retreats into the hard drive of his thoughts.

First, the facts. Moran is a predator, and Sherlock is his prey. John—he suppresses a wave of anxiety as John's face flashes across the screen of his mind—John is bait in Moran’s trap, and a predator would never lay an impossible trap. Moran wants to be found, and that means he has already given Sherlock the information he needs.

233—that’s the key. Sherlock sets this number up and to one side, keeping it nearby to compare to other relevant details. It is the key, but he still has to figure out which door it unlocks. The bullet gives him nothing else—he deletes his other findings and focuses on what else he knows about Moran.

He’s Moriarty’s man. Sherlock realises he’s known this, but hasn’t really thought about the implications—Moran appeared on his radar after Moriarty’s death, but he’d been around long before. Mentally, Sherlock increases Moran’s timeline, stretching it back to the woman with the pink case (he absolutely does _not_ think of the case as A Study in Pink, and he waves a hand dismissively to brush aside the page from John’s blog that keeps stubbornly intruding over the memory).

Right. If Moran’s been with Moriarty that long, been aware of Sherlock for that long, what changes? Sherlock plays back the cases touched by Moriarty’s hand, opening each file individually, letting the contents scroll past and filtering out anything that seems important. There’s nothing in Pink—he does admit, grudgingly, that the title makes for convenient shorthand. The Black Lotus case…John was kidnapped there as well, taken from the flat. Sherlock pulls out several images: John bound to a chair, a precariously balanced crossbow, an abandoned tramway tunnel. He considers the latter. Would Moran know about the hideout? Possible, but it’s a reach, and what would it have to do with the number? A code, like before? But pointing to what book?

No, there’s too little there, too many holes. Moran wouldn’t be so sloppy. Sherlock’s eye twitches minutely as he mentally closes the Black Lotus file and tosses it aside. In its place, he pulls up an image of his first meeting with Moriarty, at the pool where the man made his first kill. This feels—not right, but closer to it.

Moriarty himself took John that time. Another still frame: John wired with explosives, yelling for him to run, the moment John became not just an oddity, not even just an exceptionally loyal colleague, but _his_ John. Sherlock pauses here, studying the moment, savouring it—but he can’t afford to be idle, and he winds back the memory, because there’s something else, something near…Another thought appears—far later on his timeline, but glowing bright and insistent, flashing onto the screen over and above the scrolling images.

 _Four assassins living right on our doorstep…a surveillance web closing in around us._ Moriarty knew the value of proximity. Those assassins had been among the first of Sherlock’s targets after his “death.” They’d been entirely too close to John.

But what if Moran’s bullet had been trying to tell him something else? Not a hint of things to come, but a hint of things past: the man assigned to kill John had to be a sniper. No one else was close enough. And if Moran was watching John that day, how long had he been watching?

The older still frames freeze, and Sherlock selects one, enlarges it, sets it alongside a new image of Moran, rifle in hand, John in his scope. This image is of shattered windows, a sensory memory of the pressure wave that accompanied the explosion. John, rushing in the next morning, so concerned for Sherlock, but he is fine, their flat mostly unhurt. Their flat. 221. But the decimated flat—the building that had housed at least one assassin during Moriarty’s endgame…

 _Stupid! Obvious!_ Sherlock snaps back into the present, pushing up from the floor in one fluid motion, his hand sweeping across the desk to find his phone and tumbling the untouched coffee to the floor. He is halfway to the door before the mug hits the ground, dialling frantically as he goes.

“Wha—”

“An address! God, it’s so simple!” Sherlock overrides Lestrade before he can get a word in. “The bullet was from a sniper rifle; it implied distance, but that makes no sense. The hunter must be _close_ to his quarry if he’s a hope of catching it.”

“Slow down. You mean Moran—”

“How could I not _see_ it? An address! The numbers are an address!”

“The numbers. 233, yeah?”

“Baker Street,” Sherlock has already made it to the pavement, his legs moving faster than even his brain, his whole body launching into overdrive. He raises a hand to hail a taxi, his heart tripping over itself in a lurch of adrenaline. “233 _Baker Street!_ ”

Lestrade’s voice is tight, an echo of Sherlock’s own tension. “You’re sure?”

He doesn’t grace this with a response. “I’ll meet you there,” he says instead as a taxi pulls alongside the kerb. “Ten minutes.”

He puts his phone back in his pocket and gives the address to the cabbie, his thoughts reduced to a rhythm, a chant: _JohnJohnJohnJohnJohn_. His fingers clench tight as he tries to formulate a plan, something that will give him an advantage, but his mind keeps returning to its mantra, and he abandons his efforts before he’s halfway home.

_John. Oh, John, I’m coming._

 

***

Time passes.

John is surprised how quickly he loses track of the hours—at least, he’s reasonably sure it’s still hours, not yet days. The only reference he has is the changing brightness of the light in the corridor when Moran opens and closes the door to his room, and his eyes are only open the first few times this happens. After that, John saves his energy for more important things than observation—things like breathing. And screaming.

The first few shocks draw that pitiful, involuntary whine as his throat constricts and the air rushes from his lungs. His instinct is to fight it, to remain stoically silent, to deny his captor the pleasure of hearing him cry out. But at some point his training surfaces through the fog of pain, and he remembers screaming is supposed to help. Screaming or singing, and the image of himself tied naked to a chair and _singing_ sends him into a fit of hysterical giggles that earns him another jolt. Screaming it is, then.

When he runs out of breath, his brain decides he’s had enough, and John goes away for a while.

_His hair is still wet from the rain as he sits at the café table, facing Mycroft._

_“He’s not like that,” he tells the elder Holmes. “He doesn’t feel things that way.” Which isn’t exactly true, and John knows it, but that isn’t the point. Talking to Mycroft bears little resemblance to normal conversation—it’s more like playing verbal chess. So John makes his move and waits for Mycroft to counter._

_Mycroft offers him the faintest of wry smiles, acknowledging his efforts—and then changes tactics entirely. “My brother has the brain of a scientist or a philosopher, yet he elects to be a detective.” His eyebrows raise, and the look he gives John is inscrutable. “What might we deduce about his heart?”_

_Check._

_Mycroft’s face shifts to Sherlock’s, the features altering but the expression the same—detached, resigned, looking through John instead of at him. “He told me the worst thing he could think of,” he says. “He told me the truth. That everyone will leave.”_

_John’s hand closes over Sherlock’s. He wants to say something, but this isn’t Mycroft and his chess game anymore, this isn’t even just his friend anymore, this is a whole new game with new rules and no one has deigned to tell John Watson how the hell to play._

_Sherlock looks at his hand, then at John’s face. “You don’t have to,” he says, and his eyes are sad. John’s fingers clench tighter, until his knuckles are white and jaw aches from biting back everything that he should say._

_Then Sherlock reaches out a hand, gripping his chin. “You’re going to have to let go of that eventually.” He gives him a shake, and John pulls back—_

“—easy, then,” says Moran. His fingers massage John’s jaw, loosening the muscles there. “Let it go.”

John blinks, his tongue moving sluggishly in his mouth, his lips dry and cracking. Something is in the way, preventing him from closing his mouth completely, and it takes him several seconds to remember that his belt is still clenched between his teeth. Between Moran’s coaxing and John’s own painful efforts, he finally manages to pry his teeth apart enough for the man to remove the now-destroyed strip of leather. He groans in spite of himself, letting his jaw sag open.

“Come on now, Captain,” Moran says, “can’t have you sleeping through the good bits. Here. Drink.” John feels a cup at his lips. He fumbles for it, slurping the water greedily, shivering when it spills over his bare chest. Moran _tsks_ softly, producing a flannel from his back pocket and wiping up the water, then dabbing at the perspiration on John’s brow.

“All that damp,” he says. “Won’t agree with the wiring, you know, and I’d really rather you were still alive when your Mr. Holmes arrives. How are we feeling?”

John lets his head fall back against the chair, eyes closed, his throat raw from screaming, his tongue swollen. His limbs twitch randomly, but he’s hardly aware of the motion. He grits his teeth and with supreme effort manages to choke out, “Get...fucked.”

Moran laughs. “So spirited. I must say, a pleasant change from Mr. Trevor. All that begging, all that unnecessary name-calling. Now, ‘get fucked,’ that’s more like it. Simple, direct. Elegant.”

John glares up at him with one eye, too exhausted to open both. Moran pats his cheek, grinning, “I knew I liked—”

A muffled crash from somewhere above them—the soundproofing in the room means it’s less a noise and more a shuddering vibration. Moran freezes. John holds his breath, but there’s no more shaking, and he can hear nothing.

“Looks like the cavalry has arrived, eh?” Moran breathes, crossing to the door and reaching a careful hand for the knob.

John tenses, waiting. Moran opens the door a crack, and now John hears voices—faint, the words indistinguishable but the tone crisp, organised. _Police_ , John realises.

“Sher…” John’s vocal chords seize on the syllable, his voice hardly a whisper in his ruined throat.

Moran raises an amused eyebrow at him. “So it would seem. And he’s brought _friends_. Not very sportsmanlike, is it?” He slips into the corridor, his hand sliding behind his back, and John spots the butt of a pistol tucked into his trousers.

“Sherlock!” He tries again, his shout still more air than noise, but a bit firmer this time.

“Ah, ah,” Moran chides. “None of that. You wait here.”

Right. Like going somewhere is an option. John manages to find the energy for an eye roll, and then the door clicks shut behind Moran, and he is left alone in the quiet and the dark.

***

“You’re not coming in.” It’s the fourteenth time Lestrade has said this, and Sherlock is running out of new ways to disagree.

“You’re not stopping me,” he replies.

“I could put you in handcuffs and toss you in the back of my car,” Lestrade counters, and Sherlock glares at him, realising this is entirely within Lestrade’s power. Over the DI’s shoulder, Donovan smirks at him. Smirks! John’s life on the line, and the woman has the nerve to goad him! It takes all his self-control not to finger the heavy bulk of John’s Sig Sauer in his coat pocket.

Sherlock switches tactics. “You need me. You don’t know Moran like I do.”

“And whose fault is that?” asks Lestrade, annoyed, strapping on his own firearm.

Sherlock flinches, but he can’t let himself be sidetracked. “You didn’t find the bullet clue. You might miss something else.” Lestrade stiffens at that but does not reply, and Sherlock presses his advantage, adding softly, “Please. It’s John in there. I have to…” He hesitates, unsure how to finish, one hand half raised toward the other man’s arm.

Lestrade is silent for a moment, and Sherlock can see him struggling with himself: his eyes radiate concern, warm and creased at the edges with the need to protect John from whoever’s taken him, to protect Sherlock from himself. But those eyes study Sherlock from behind a wall of professionalism, Lestrade clearly torn between doing what’s right and doing what’s right for Sherlock. The battle stretches on for an agonising few seconds—and then the tension drains from him as he relents.

“Look,” says Lestrade, “you _stay behind us_. Completely out of the way.”

Donovan, barking orders into her radio, pauses to shoot him an incredulous look, and Sherlock knows he’s overwrought because he can’t even spare a moment to sneer in return; he’s too busy nodding furiously at Lestrade, only half hearing him over the thrum of his heartbeat.

“Right.” Lestrade unholsters his weapon. “Donovan, with me. Everything else ready to go?”

She nods, clipping her radio to her belt. “Ambulance standing by.”

“Fantastic.” He glances at Sherlock. “Behind us. The whole time, understood?” Sherlock's hand steals into his pocket, one finger resting against the gun there. The cold metal is reassuring. He nods.

“Then here we go.”

***

For Sherlock, time slows. Lestrade’s men move around him, in front of him, like insects struggling through sap. His senses are on high alert, filtering through the abundance of stimuli, discarding the ones that don’t matter: the splintering crack of the door as it buckles under the ram, the rustle of bodies shuffling past him, the pounding of feet as the officers fan out, searching rooms and corridors, the shouts of “Clear!” echoing through the ground floor. Sherlock hears these things, but dimly; they are not important, they are not _John_.

Lestrade’s face in his field of vision. “We’re going up. This floor’s clear—see what you can find. Do _not_ follow us until I call for you, yeah?”

He offers a single nod, irritated, making small motions with his hands to shoo him away. He needs to look, to listen…The sounds of Lestrade and his men fade as they make their way upstairs. Sherlock paces the ground floor, sketching a blueprint in his mind.

The building is large, but not complex: two shops facing the street, but they have separate entrances and exits than the rest of the building—worth investigating further if this search proves fruitless, but not before. The corridor he’s standing in leads from the front door to the living space, with a stairway to his left that leads upstairs. On the ground floor, there is one small flat stretching behind the shops, with windows on the opposite side of the building, facing Allsop Street. An air of disrepair hangs about the place—after the “gas leak” explosion two years ago, the building’s façade and shop fronts were quickly repaired, but the refurbishment appears to have halted there. The building seems structurally sound, but some walls are only half papered, and loose wiring protrudes from the wall in several places. The ground floor flat is dark and devoid of furnishings, layered with dust on every visible surface—including the floor, Sherlock notes. He crouches down, positioning himself so he can see the corridor and the sitting room of the flat, his eyes wide, sponging information from his surroundings.

_Floor in the flat evenly coated with dust. Corridor floor isn’t clean, but the dust has gathered into corners; not swept—pushed aside by regular foot traffic. Not using the flat—no furniture, no other clean surfaces to indicate much interaction with the room. Living somewhere else then, maybe upstairs, with the windows facing Baker Street—more practical for watching our flat. So why come this far down the corridor, why not just to the stairs? Has to be something interesting—dusty floor with a few footprints would mean he came here once or twice, but this floor says he’s here often._

Sherlock spots no signs of blood, of struggle—if this was where Moran kept Victor, where he took John, he’d expect to see—

He pauses, his eyes catching something odd, although it takes a moment for him to process it. He steps carefully into the flat, turning in slow circles to take in the entirety of the space. The room in which he stands, a combination kitchen and sitting room, is rectangular, but the adjacent room, the bedroom, is built on an L-shaped floor plan. Which wouldn’t be unusual, except, Sherlock realises, there’s no architectural reason for it. The L-shaped room has less space; the only reason for such a shape would be to accommodate—what? Sherlock scans the adjacent room: a door in the far corner opens onto a bathroom, and a closet takes up the rest of the space on that wall. There’s nothing in the flat to indicate a reason for the shape of the room.

He steps back out into the corridor, finding the patch of wall that corresponds to the missing space—and now he’s looking for it, he sees it immediately: the outline of a door, carefully papered over to match the rest of the corridor wall. A wire dangles from the wall at roughly the level of a doorknob. Given the condition of the building, it’s not surprising the police missed it.

Sherlock’s hand dips into his pocket, closing around the grip of John’s pistol. He can still hear the faint footsteps of the police above him, busy clearing the two upper floors. Should he call for them? If Moran is behind this door, he’ll be listening, waiting to see if he’ll be discovered. Calling out will only let him know the game is up, and Sherlock isn’t sure what that would mean for John.

 _If he’s still alive,_ his mind offers unhelpfully. Sherlock frowns, shaking this thought off. It’s not like him to be so needlessly dark—he’s certain John is still alive. Taking him is a punishment for Sherlock, one Moran will want to prolong. If he’s going to kill him, he’ll wait until Sherlock can watch him do it. _Hardly more comforting._ He closes his eyes for a moment against a spike of pure dread, the adrenaline in his system only just managing to keep him standing. Mycroft’s voice in his head, vicious in its logic: _Caring is not an advantage, Sherlock_. No, it isn’t, but now it’s there, he is rather unpractised at shutting it off.

He takes a deep breath, gathering his fear, his worry, that tiny glow of something warm and uncertain that is huddled deep in his chest: _God, John_. Sherlock seeks out John’s room in his mind, trying to fit the haphazard bundle of emotion inside. For a moment, his heart resists, insisting these things are too large, too important to be locked away—but his mental discipline wins out, and he closes the door, feeling his anxiety ease a bit as his mental barriers slide into place. It’s not perfect, and it won’t last, but it will work for now.

He opens his eyes, easing John’s gun from his pocket, pleased to see that his hands are steady. Well, perhaps a slight tremble, but that’s the adrenaline. His head feels clear, at least. He can’t call out to Lestrade—truth be told, doesn’t _want_ to call out for him, because this is his fight and he intends to finish it. But he hears the foolishness, the arrogance in this, and with John’s life at stake…

With his left hand, he fishes out his phone and types out a text to Lestrade.

_2:51 PM_  
_Hidden basement door. Need back up. -SH_

Twenty two seconds elapse with no reply. Sherlock calculates quickly—it took them three minutes to clear the ground floor, but the upper floors are larger. Another seven or eight minutes to clear those, then, supposing they find nothing. It took Sherlock two and a half minutes to find the door, so he has perhaps four or five minutes before he can expect Lestrade to read the message. Too long.

He reaches for the wires dangling from the wall and pulls, feeling the door mechanism give. The door opens silently and smoothly on its hinges— _recently used_ , as if he needed more confirmation—and Sherlock finds himself staring down a short flight of stairs.

One more deep breath, then, John’s gun held straight in front of him, Sherlock descends into the basement.

***

John’s chin is on his chest, eyes closed as he tries to force himself to listen. It’s no good—there’s nothing to hear, and even if there were, his brain is fuzzy round the edges, thoughts slipping and sparking and tumbling out of his head as quickly as they appear. The line between consciousness and unconsciousness is blurry, and only the ache in his muscles and the erratic thread of his pulse tell him which side of the line he’s on.

So when the door opens and he squints into the sudden pool of washed-out daylight in the doorway, he isn’t quite sure if he’s dreaming or not. For a moment, he sees Moran: the height, the frame, the too-long hair are all the same. It takes him several seconds to pick out the differences—the flaring coat, the gun— _Jesus_ —and even backlit in the dimness of the room, the set of the eyebrows is too intense, so focused on John that he feels those eyes on him even before one long arm reaches for the lights and he can actually see.

“John!” The gun falters, Sherlock’s hand dropping to his side as he moves; for once, the pull between them dragging Sherlock to _him_ instead of the other way round. John is suddenly aware of the way his whole body is trembling, and he ducks his head, absurdly embarrassed, as Sherlock drops to his knees beside him.

“Sorry—” The word falls from numb lips, and everything else he may have meant to say seems suddenly irrelevant, his tongue shaping the apology over and over: “So sorry, Sherlock. Jesus.”

But Sherlock is ignoring him, his hands everywhere, checking his pulse, his pupils, stripping the wires from his skin. The tape pulls painfully at John’s bare skin, but he hardly feels it. He does flinch away from his gun, still casually held in one of Sherlock’s hands, wanting to shout at him— _Are you mad? That hasn’t got a safety, you know._ —but he can’t translate this into actual speech, and all he can say is, “Sherlock, _safe_.”

Which, of course, Sherlock misunderstands entirely, but at least he sets the gun down so he can loosen the leather straps binding John to the chair, murmuring, “Yes, safe now.” His long fingers fumble with the plastic ties around John’s wrists and ankles. He growls in frustration and disappears, and John has to bite back a wave of panic that threatens to sweep him away. It’s only seconds, and then Sherlock is back, slicing through the plastic with a knife, presumably scavenged from Moran’s supplies.

“Can you stand?” he asks, and John notices for the first time how pale he is, his full lips pressed together with something deeper than concern. And there—the memory of those lips in the dark, Sherlock tasting like Sherlock, Sherlock tasting like _John_ , all smoke and salt and hunger; it flashes through him with startling clarity, and he reaches for him reflexively.

Sherlock catches his hand, and their eyes meet for a moment—Sherlock’s eyes are guarded, but his hand on John’s squeezes once, and John wants to say…but it’s gone again, evaporating into the grey fog of his thoughts. He realises Sherlock is still watching him, waiting for an answer.

John takes his hand back, bracing himself against the arm of the chair and attempting to lever himself to his feet. His knees buckle immediately, and he has a moment of blind terror; his arms and legs feel alien to his body, his muscles watery and his head spinning.  
“Christ, I can’t—,” he mutters, and then again, “Sorry.”

Sherlock catches him, one arm snaking around his torso and keeping him—just barely—from collapsing entirely. “Stop that,” Sherlock snaps.

“Stop…?”

“Apologising. It’s unproductive.”

“I just—”

“Not _now_ , John.” God, the irritation in his voice is nearly as comforting as his touch; both are practical, focused, but so familiar that John grasps at them, grounds himself in them and takes root, finding strength in Sherlock’s certainty. Sherlock eases him back into the chair, shrugging out of his coat and draping it over John’s shoulders.

John nearly flushes, remembering for the first time that he’s wearing nothing except a fine sheen of sweat and filth and a few abrasions. He huddles into the coat, sliding his arms into the too-long sleeves as Sherlock retrieves the gun and starts to pace, eyes glancing wildly around the room.

“Moran,” John stammers. “Where…where is he?”

“Here,” says a cheery voice from the corridor.

John’s instinct screams for him to duck, to find cover, but there’s nowhere to hide. He freezes instead, coat wrapped around him like a shield. Sherlock reacts for him, his arm snapping up, gun straight and steady as Moran steps smoothly into the doorway.

Moran holds his own pistol, and he aims the barrel not at Sherlock, poised to shoot, but at John, helpless in the chair. He smirks at them both before addressing Sherlock. “Mr. Holmes. So nice to finally meet you face to face.”

Sherlock’s eyes narrow, his grip shifting slightly on the Sig, and John wonders—not for the first time—if he actually knows how to shoot. His hand looks comfortable, his stance is confident, but Sherlock is a talented actor, and John knows all too well the difference between merely pulling a trigger and actually shooting to kill. Somehow, he isn’t convinced that Sherlock knows the same.

Moran’s smirk slips into an almost friendly smile, and he tilts his head toward John. “Alright there, Captain?”

From the corner of his eye, John sees Sherlock’s finger tighten almost imperceptibly on the trigger. Moran must see it too, because his pistol swings away from John and centres on Sherlock instead.

“Not so fast, I think,” he grins. “I’m a bit disappointed in you, you know.”

Sherlock cocks an eyebrow at him. “And why is that?” he asks, his dry tone at odds with the tension in his stance.

“Didn’t think you’d call the Met on me. That’s not exactly playing by the rules.”

“I wasn’t aware there were rules.”

“There’s always rules. An eye for an eye. According to the rules, one of you”—his gun twitches briefly toward John—“should be dead.”

“Don’t think I’m particularly keen on that rule, then.”

“So it would seem. But I owe you a death, Mr. Holmes. I’d have liked to make it painful, but your rather cowardly involvement of the police means it’ll have to be quick.”

“They’ll hear the shot,” Sherlock points out. “You won’t make it out of the building.”

Moran acknowledges this with a slight nod. “Maybe. But my life is hardly the prize. I’m here to finish what Jim started. After that…” He shrugs dismissively to show his lack of self-concern.

John’s arms and legs are still shaking, his exhausted mind still trying to retreat into unconsciousness. He keeps his eyes on Moran’s hands. John is unarmed and defenceless, which is his biggest weakness and his only advantage. If Sherlock can keep Moran talking, keep his attention off John—but the space between them is too much. Moran will have plenty of time to shoot, and unlike Sherlock, John knows Moran won’t miss. He focuses on steadying his limbs, trying to channel the ebbing adrenaline in his bloodstream into one last surge of control.

“And yet,” says Sherlock, “you haven’t killed me.”

“Sherlock…” John warns, and that’s all he has time for before Moran moves, and then everything is happening at once.

Sherlock must be watching Moran’s body language, because he fires, but something in his calculations is off, and Moran sidesteps the instant before Sherlock’s finger squeezes the trigger. The bullet zips past him, burying itself in the corridor wall. Moran, still in one fluid motion, adjusts his aim, and John can see the path the bullet will take, Moran’s gun pointed at Sherlock’s heart, and it _can’t_ , he won’t let it, he can’t lose him again.

With the last reserves of his energy, he shoves himself upward, throwing his weight into Sherlock. There’s a bang—two?—and John feels the bright-hot punch to his chest, carrying him backward, and he lands in a pile on top of Sherlock.

“No!” Sherlock’s voice in his ear. “No, John!” Sherlock is pulling at him, one arm under his shoulders, rocking back and forth above him. John’s eyes are wide, the room strangely dark in spite of the daylight and the bare bulbs on the ceiling. In the doorway, another crumpled figure—Moran?—and someone stepping over it, gun still trained on the corpse.

“Sherlock, is he…Oh, Christ.” Lestrade’s voice this time. John opens his mouth— _I’m fine, stop this_ —but he tastes copper, and he can see a thin stream of red hit the floor when he tries to speak.

“Get the ambulance!” Sherlock says above him—he’s right there, John could touch him, could kiss him maybe, so why does he sound so far away? “John.” Sherlock lays one hand against his cheek, and his eyes are furious, furious and full of fear. “Don’t you dare,” he whispers fiercely.

Lestrade is on his radio, John can see him, just at the edge of his vision, and then the grey fog in his mind sweeps over him and John can see Sherlock, only Sherlock, and the tang of blood on his tongue—is that Sherlock’s taste or his?

“Sor…sorry,” he manages, the word bubbling up over his lips on a hitched breath.

“Shut _up!_ ” says Sherlock’s mouth, but his eyes say _Stay here_. And yes, that’s all he wants, really. Just to stay.

The grey fog turns to black, and John lets it roll over him.

***


	12. Science and Faith

_We’re just trying to find some meaning_  
_In the things that we believe in…_  
_You can break everything down to chemicals_  
_But you can’t explain a love like ours_  
_____________________________________________________________________________

“Has he sat down at all?” Mrs. Hudson, whispering to Lestrade, but she may as well be shouting. Something about this waiting room is _wrong_ , the silence making every noise seem unbearably loud. Sherlock paces back and forth, hands in his hair, on his hips, fluttering about him like restless birds, and this place is going to drive him insane.

“No. I shouldn’t bother. You know how he is, and…well, I’ve never seen him quite like this, actually.”

And there’s the walls. Blue, like a new spring sky, like veins under skin. _Meant to be soothing, calming_ , but then colour psychology is such a dubious field of study, hardly worth calling science at all.

“But it’s been _hours_. He at least ought to let me bring him a clean shirt—all that blood; it isn’t decent.”

In any case, this blue is all wrong. Sherlock wants deep blue, like salt water and storm clouds, like impure corundum crystals, like—well, yes, like John’s eyes, a blue that is sometimes brown and sometimes black, and damn this _room_ , it will be the end of him.

“Yeah well, you can try. To be honest, I’m not sure it’s wise, trying to take away anything connected to…” Lestrade trails off, and Sherlock hears Mrs. Hudson sniffle quietly. “I mean,” he hurries on, “Molly offered him a coffee an hour ago and he nearly took her head off. Poor sod isn’t—oh, sorry.”

“It’s fine, dear.”

“In any case, best leave him.” Lestrade covers both of her hands with one of his and pats them gently, if somewhat awkwardly.

How can the man be so calm? If he is really John’s friend, shouldn’t he be coming apart? Why is it only Sherlock who seems to feel it, the way the world is suddenly off-balance?

_John’s weight in his lap, John’s blood on his hands—God, so much of John’s blood. A half-litre? More? His coat, still wrapped around the doctor’s shoulders, is soaking up the spreading warmth, making it difficult to judge—and he needs to judge, needs to know how much time John has left._

_“Sorry,” says John, and the word is a red splatter on his lips, and of course he’s sorry, the idiot, he damn well ought to be sorry, because what has he done? What has he done and how can Sherlock fix it? He needs to fix it before John leaves, goes away again, goes away forever._

Sherlock blinks, coming back from the memory, and finds his fingers resting over the bloodstain on his shirt, still for the first time in hours. He stares at the knuckles of his right hand, raw and split because some fool tried to tell him he couldn’t ride in the ambulance and Sherlock didn’t have time to explain. Maybe he’s taking after John a bit, hauling off and punching things to get his way, but he has to admit it’s terribly effective.

No amount of threatening, however, could get him into the surgery, and now he’s stuck _here_ , in this hateful room with its hideous walls and its total, utter lack of—

“Watson?”

Sherlock’s head whips around to find a surgeon standing there. He knows his heart does not actually freeze in his chest, but the sensation is so sudden that he sucks in a gasp of air just to assure himself that he still can. Lestrade is up, moving toward him, but Sherlock is there first, descending on the doctor like a pale, rumpled whirlwind.

“Is he—?” Sherlock stops short, unable to say the words.

The doctor raises his hands in a gesture that is probably meant to be calming, but—like the blue walls—is merely infuriating. Sherlock balls his hands into fists to prevent himself from shaking the man.

“You’re his family?” the doctor asks.

“He hasn’t any,” says Sherlock, as Lestrade says, “They couldn’t make it.” Sherlock snorts. Lestrade’s the one who called Harriet, who refused to come. As far as Sherlock’s concerned, she doesn’t deserve her surname.

The doctor looks back and forth between the two of them, but Sherlock is losing his patience.

“What is it?” he prods. “Tell me.”

“He’s out of surgery,” says the doctor. “The bullet punctured a lung and lodged in the muscle, near his spine. He was lucky; a few centimetres to the right, and he’d be paralysed. A little higher, and he’d be dead.”

“But he’s not.” Sherlock takes a step forward, crowding into the doctor’s personal space. “He’s…he’ll be alright?”

Again, the doctor’s hands go up, one hand hovering near Sherlock’s chest as if to hold him back, his gaze lingering on the bloodstained shirt. He hesitates. “We’ve removed the bullet, and he’s stable for now. But his body…the trauma from the electrocution may have lasting results. We can’t tell, not while he’s under sedation. There is nerve damage to his hands, his arms, his legs—it may be temporary, or it may not. It’s too soon to tell.”

A thousand feelings in response to that. Sherlock’s brain works furiously to sort them, pushing aside for now thoughts of _nerve damage_  and _too soon to tell_  and clinging instead to _stable_. _Alive_.

“Where is he?”

“Sherlock—” Lestrade lays a hand on his arm, but Sherlock shakes him off.

“He’s sleeping now. It’ll be hours yet before he’s awake, and a few hours after that before he’s ready to see anyone. Tomorrow, maybe, the family—”

“I’ll wait with him,” Sherlock interrupts.

“That isn’t—”

“I’ll wait with him," he repeats, still standing far too close to the doctor and looking down at him imperiously.

The man looks to Lestrade for support, and the DI glances at Sherlock, who meets his gaze, unblinking. The way his lips part, that’s only because he’s overwhelmed, his heart rate racing, his lungs demanding more oxygen. It’s certainly not begging.

After a moment, Lestrade shrugs, turning to the doctor. “Well?” he says, throwing up his eyebrows. “You heard him.” Sherlock can’t quite prevent his lips from quirking into a half smile. He’ll owe Lestrade, after this—a pint? A free consultation on a case? Some sort of card? That seems terribly formal. He’ll have to ask John what’s appropriate.

“Sir, really.” The doctor is growing flustered. “The critical care ward is closed to anyone who isn’t family. I understand your concern, but he will have to wait.”

“He is family.”

“But he just said—”

Lestrade produces his badge and ID, flashing them briefly before the doctor. “Yeah, well, I think we can make an exception.”

The doctor purses his lips like he tastes something rotten, but after a long pause, he sighs. He nods once, and Lestrade turns away, going to tell Mrs. Hudson the news.

John’s face in Sherlock’s mind, and for a moment his friend is so present that Sherlock can actually feel the sharp, subtle elbow to his side, can see the eyebrows raised toward Lestrade. He steps forward, fingers just barely catching Lestrade’s sleeve, retreating immediately as he turns back.

“Thank you,” Sherlock says, and the words are strange on his tongue.

Lestrade looks momentarily surprised, burying his hands in his pockets. A smile ghosts across his lips, but it’s gone almost before it appears, and he nods solemnly in return.

“Don’t mention it,” he says. 

***

The rhythmic beeping of the heart monitor fills the small room. Sherlock has folded himself into the chair beside John’s bed, watching John but not touching him. He is counting the seconds between John’s breaths, tracking the pattern of his sleep, waiting for the shift that will mean he’s awake.

John’s eyes twitch under closed eyelids as he enters a REM cycle— _dreaming_. Sherlock wonders what he’s seeing. A nightmare, maybe; Sherlock’s certainly given him enough inspiration for those. He remembers the way John cried out in his sleep, the way he started up, gasping for air, and it was necessary, everything Sherlock did was absolutely necessary, but no, it wasn’t kind.

And now— _John’s eyes bright in the firelight, John’s hands against his ribs, John’s lips, oh god, everywhere_ —is that kindness? Or just another moment that will haunt John’s dreams? The thought makes him ache in a way that he can’t explain—there’s no physiological reason, no combination of chemicals that should produce that tearing sensation deep in his chest.

At least he can do this, he can be here. Until John wakes, he can be here. After that—well, he doesn’t know what comes after that. Sherlock Holmes, who sees everything and understands everything and knows everything, he has no idea what to make of John, with his touching and his apologies and his _leaving_. And the not knowing, that is almost as terrifying as the thought of losing him. Almost as terrifying as that needy, gnawing tug at his heart. 

“How is he?”

Sherlock looks up to find Mycroft in the doorway. He sighs through his nose and turns back to John. “You have access to the largest information network outside of the Central Intelligence Agency. I’m sure you know his condition better than I do, so I can only assume this is your attempt at small talk.”

“Just trying to be supportive.”

“I’d really rather you didn’t.”

Ignoring him, Mycroft comes to stand at the foot of John’s bed. “Moran is dead,” he says.

“Are you asking me or telling me?” Sherlock doesn’t bother to hide the edge in his voice. It’s not like Mycroft to make pointless conversation.

“You left in such a hurry, I wasn’t sure you knew.” 

“I saw the corpse. Lestrade confirmed the kill. Look, if you came here for a reason, best be out with it. I’m busy.”

His brother is quiet for several long moments, and Sherlock is keenly aware of his scrutiny. “Are you alright?” he asks at length. His voice is soft and—not gentle, no. Mycroft is never gentle.

“Of course I’m alright. I’m not the one who’s been shot.”

“That’s not what I mean. We’re all upset about John—”

“Are we?” Sherlock sneers.

“—but I’ve never seen you quite so attentive. What’s different?”

“Different?” That draws Sherlock’s attention, and he regards his brother from beneath lowered brows. “Different how?”

“If I didn’t know better…” Mycroft glances from Sherlock to John and back again, his eyes narrowing. Sherlock carefully avoids looking at John—as if it will matter. Mycroft sees everything; it’s one of the reasons Sherlock can’t help but hate him.

But whatever he sees, Mycroft remains silent. Finally, Sherlock shrugs, uncomfortable.

“I’m sure you have more important things to do,” he says, the dismissal clear as he turns his attention back to studying John’s breathing.

When Mycroft moves, however, it’s to place his hand on Sherlock’s shoulder. Sherlock stiffens, but his brother does not retreat. He doesn’t say anything either, and for a moment, Sherlock remembers a time when this man was not an enemy, was not powerful or mysterious or dangerous, was just meddlesome and overly protective and occasionally even admirable.

Then Mycroft squeezes slightly and lets go, and the moment is gone. By the time he reaches the door, he is himself again, distant, immovable, the British government embodied.

Sherlock stares after him for a long time after he leaves, his fingers brushing against his shoulder, still feeling the weight of his brother’s hand.

***  

_Pain, white and fire-hot, sharp and sudden and familiar. The aluminium tang of blood in his mouth is unnerving, but not entirely unwanted. He couldn’t say it out loud, but this is a dream, after all, and if he can’t say it here, where can he? The fact is, John Watson has never minded pain so much. And no, he doesn’t want to die, but the way his body slows down in this moment, shutting down unnecessary functions and focusing all its energy on breathing and clotting and mending, it’s sort of fascinating, really. Nothing else has ever made him so aware of himself, of the duality of body and soul._

_Nothing feels closer to living than shaking heads with death._

_Above him, Sherlock’s face is sad and angry and afraid, and John wants to tell him it’s all right, it’s not so bad—Christ, it’s even interesting. But mostly he just wants to tell him he needs him, because shaking hands with death might be the most alive he’s felt, but doing anything at all with Sherlock Holmes is a close second._  

John comes back to consciousness slowly. His chest is on fire and something near his head will not stop _beeping_. He draws a deep, experimental breath, but he’s hardly begun before something under his ribs wrenches miserably and the breath becomes an agonised groan instead.

“John!” A breathless whisper beside him, and his eyes flutter open reluctantly. It takes several seconds for his vision to focus, his gaze drawn by a shivering movement to his right: Sherlock, seated beside him, his hands gripping the seat of his chair, his whole body nearly shaking. It takes him another moment to realise why—he is holding himself back, keeping himself from touching John, from sweeping over him with the tidal wave of his intensity.

“You’re awake,” he says, and the words seem to relax him a bit, some of his nervous energy draining away.

John can only blink at him blearily. “Wish—I wasn’t,” he rasps, and it dissolves into a moan. Speaking is a terrible idea, it seems. Whatever demon is raging in his chest— _That’ll be your lungs, Watson, bullet’s had some fun there_ —is clearly angered by the attempt. 

“Don’t try to talk,” Sherlock commands.

John is pleased to find that rolling his eyes only hurts a little, though it wreaks havoc on his still hazy vision. _Figured that out for myself, thanks._

Sherlock reaches across him, and John is confused until he follows the line of his arm and finds the call button for the nurse. “Get you something for the pain,” he explains, and all John’s irritation fades, because oh yes, please. He closes his eyes again, concentrating on keeping his breathing shallow. Dimly, he hears the nurse arrive, hears the rustle of IV bags shifting about, and then— 

His eyes fly open, and the moan that escapes him this time is nearly obscene in its pleasure. The nurse flushes a bit, hiding a smile, and Sherlock quirks an eyebrow at him.

“God, that’s nice,” he says, and the words still hurt, still sound like gravel in his throat, but the bliss spreading from his arm is warm and weightless, the pain not disappearing but shrinking, like it is rooted to the ground and John is floating, higher and higher…

Somewhere through the cloud of painkillers, he sees Sherlock slinking toward the door. He grunts, finding that now he has the power of speech, he’s quite lost the will to use it. It seems to be enough, however, because Sherlock stops, glancing back at him.

John pushes away the comfort of beckoning oblivion, shoving it aside long enough to look Sherlock in the eye. “Stay?” he asks, and his finger twitches toward the chair. Sherlock hesitates, and John giggles a little. It isn’t funny, but it is a bit, the way Sherlock’s face goes all sideways and confused.

“Shit,” he says breathily. He’s certain that’s not what he _meant_  to say, but Sherlock is moving, Sherlock is coming back, so _that’s_  all right, then. He turns his hand over, palm up—it’s trembling a little, which seems odd. He doesn’t feel at all cold. With a colossal effort, he shifts his hand closer to the edge of the bed, toward the chair.

Sherlock sits down, glancing from his face to his hand and back again, and God, the man is stupid, and so _slow_. John’s eyes are closing in spite of himself. “Deduce,” he tells Sherlock firmly, and his eyelids slide shut.

From far away, he feels long fingers move over his palm, trace the length of his quivering hand and then lace through his own clumsy digits, and _finally_ , Sherlock has understood. Then the warmth overwhelms him, and he lets himself drift away.

***

 _Stay_ , John said, and so Sherlock does. It’s a bit boring, yes, watching him sleep, but he passes the time by measuring the frequency of the tremors in John's arms and legs, memorising the way John’s fingers feel entwined with his, weighing the meaning of the gesture; he can read intention in every movement of the body, but the dialect of gestures has always been a bit lost on him, a language he can read but isn’t quite sure how to speak.

The way their hands are knit together, it pulses in him, his fingertips pressed against the back of John’s hand, phalanges mirrored, distal to proximal, and he knows the name of every tendon, every muscle and bone, but he doesn’t know what to call this—affection? Comfort? It is definitely sentiment, and definitely dangerous…but then dangerous has its own appeal, sometimes.

His hand cramps, the muscles in his back knot from the awkward position, but Sherlock does not let go. His brain tells him this is impractical, illogical. John is unconscious; he won’t miss the contact. But body and brain combined are not so powerful as to overcome this third thing, this thing with claws and teeth and dark blue eyes, this thing that kissed him without claiming him, that tried to die for him, this thing that is so dull and pedestrian and _beneath_  him, surely—yet there it sits, perched in his chest, all warmth and feathers and fear.

He thinks of John, his sobs through the wall on the day Sherlock realised that no matter how much he was saving his friend, he was also killing him. And now, it seems, John has worked out how to return the favour, killing him piece by piece, taking him apart, dragging him into this realm of mundane emotion and appetite that is foreign and tedious and a bit extraordinary. But maybe—his hand grips John’s a little tighter, the hard press of metacarpals through flesh as another tremor shivers through the hand beneath his—maybe, if he lets him, John can save him as well.

***

Two days pass like this, John in and out of consciousness. At first, Sherlock simply ignores the doctors and nurses who come and go. As time goes on, however, he becomes increasingly bored, his brain demanding input the way an engine demands oil, wearing away at itself until his agitation cannot be held at bay any longer and he abandons his chair in favour of pacing the small room.

His manic energy is further fuelled by his craving for a cigarette, and while he cares not at all for the hospital’s anti-smoking policy, he can’t risk it around John, with his weakened lungs. He tries sneaking a cigarette in the toilets, but only manages half a decent smoke before hospital security finds him, and it takes some rather exceptional misdirection to prevent his immediate ejection from the building.

Robbed of his coping mechanism, he begins to question the doctors, demanding detailed explanations of every procedure, every piece of equipment, every change in John’s breathing or the severity of his tremors. On the second afternoon, he corners an unsuspecting nurse who’s come to change John’s IV; he kindly informs her that he changed it twenty minutes earlier, and if she’s determined to be so woefully incompetent in her chosen profession, she can at least make herself useful and bring him a coffee, black, two sugars.

She goes haring off into the corridor with her eyes wide as saucers, and John wakes again after she leaves. The painkillers make normal conversation somewhat elusive, but as normal conversation is hardly one of Sherlock’s strengths, he doesn’t really mind. In any case, it’s an opportunity to study the effects of the drug on the average mind.

“It’s very boring here,” he complains as soon as John opens his eyes.

“Not going to ask me how I’m feeling, then.” The drug has had no effect whatsoever on John’s sarcasm.

“No need,” Sherlock sniffs. “You usually wake when the painkillers are beginning to lose effect. Your breathing’s not markedly shallow, but it catches every third or fourth breath—the pain is manageable but present. Intermittent tremors of varying severity, but those shouldn’t have an impact on how you’re feeling.”

John sighs. “Course not—only nerve damage.”

“I was referring to your physical anguish, John, not your emotional state. Don’t be obtuse.” But Sherlock ceases pacing and comes to sit beside him.

“What do they say?” John has the soft, slack face of an invalid, showing little expression, and he’s careful to keep his tone even, but there is fear behind his eyes.

“Nothing much of use.” The disdain is clear in Sherlock’s voice. “The shaking will stop or it won’t.”

“And you?” Shorter sentences now—his pain level is rising. Sherlock reaches across him and adjusts his IV to increase his dosage.

He rattles off his observations as he works. “The tremors are bilateral, but they’re more frequent on your right side, and more frequent in your hand and arm than in your leg. Worse when you’re awake, especially if you over-exert yourself.” As if to emphasise this, John’s right arm twitches, then lies still.

“See?” John closes his eyes, his lips curling with just a hint of a wry smile. “Nothing…to worry about…’t all.”

Sherlock notes the way his facial muscles relax as the increased drug takes effect. “You’re feeling better already. Honestly, this medical lark isn’t so difficult. Don’t know what you’re bragging about all the time.”

“Cheeky…bastard.”

“John…”

John’s eyes flicker open, but Sherlock isn’t sure what he wants to say. He has questions, so many questions, but John’s in no state to answer them. He flounders in silence for several seconds. John huffs a laugh, then immediately winces.

“C’mere,” he says, beckoning him with a clumsy hand.

Sherlock steps closer, somewhat wary. John grabs at his arm, fumbling a bit until Sherlock moves, raising his hand to thread their fingers together. Such a silly gesture, really, it’s so rarely practical to give up use of one’s hand—but John seems to like it.

A throat clears, and Sherlock starts, pivoting toward the door. Lestrade is there, a vase of flowers in his arms, his eyebrows journeying slowly toward his hairline as he takes in their joined hands.

“Not interrupting, I hope?” he asks dryly.

Sherlock’s cheeks heat—embarrassed not by the body language, which seems such an arbitrary idea of affection, but by how much emotion may be showing on his face. He fights the blush, painting cold indifference over his features instead.

He opens his mouth: “John is—”

“Greg!” John interrupts joyously, throwing out his left arm as if he can embrace Lestrade from across the room.

“—on a lot of drugs, actually,” Sherlock finishes.

Lestrade tactfully hides a grin and makes his way to John’s bedside.

“Good to see you awake, mate.”

“He won’t be for long. The painkillers make him tired as well as insufferable.”

Lestrade looks Sherlock up and down. “Insufferable? That’s rich.” He turns back to John before the detective can reply. He raises the flowers. “Lads at the Met got you these. Even Anderson and Donovan chipped in.”

“Bugger Donovan,” John says decisively.

Lestrade barks a laugh, looking at Sherlock. “I warned you,” Sherlock states, shrugging. He can’t hide the smile tugging at the corner of his own mouth.

“Right,” says Lestrade. “I suppose it’s stupid to ask how you’re feeling.”

“Don’t much like…getting shot.”

“Yeah, Christ. You wouldn’t know it, all the bullet holes in you. I have to say, you had me worried." 

John raises the hand still intertwined with Sherlock’s. “Him too,” he mumbles, his eyes drifting closed again.

Lestrade’s face softens, more serious. “Yeah.” He continues talking to John, but he’s looking at Sherlock reprovingly. “Heard this one hasn’t slept or eaten for two days. He’s making a menace of himself to the hospital staff.”

“Starting to…stink a bit…as well.” Sherlock glares at him, but John is fading now, drifting back to sleep. 

“He’s right,” Lestrade says. “I can smell you from here. You ought to go home, grab a shower. Sleep.”

Sherlock hesitates, watching John.

“I can stay for a while,” Lestrade presses. “He won’t be alone.”

Sherlock is still quiet, now studying his hand, still wrapped around John’s. Lestrade’s eyes follow his, but he says nothing, merely reaches under his arm, pulling out a package that was hidden behind the flowers. He tosses it to Sherlock, who catches it with his free hand and reads the label—nicotine patches.

“Takes one to know one. I can tell you’re gasping.”

Sherlock releases John’s hand to tear at the package, working two patches out of their wrapping and slapping them onto his forearm, flexing his fingers to increase the nicotine’s circulation through his system.

“God,” is all he says.

Lestrade smiles. “Just don’t use ‘em all in one night, yeah?”

*** 

After four weeks, John is conscious for whole hours at a time, able to shuffle along the hospital corridor without pausing to catch his breath every other step—he used the walker at first out of necessity, but flatly refused the cane when it was offered.

The tremors are another matter, but they come less frequently, and hardly ever in his legs now, which seems to please the doctors but only makes John’s mouth go flat and angry, as if sheer stubbornness will overcome the nerve damage—scientifically impossible, of course, and Sherlock wants to tell him it’s foolish, but that rigid determination _is_  a bit endearing. He decides John’s disillusionment can be postponed, and opts instead to conduct his own study on the impact of a patient’s state of mind on neurological disorders.

On the first day of the fifth week, Sherlock sits in his customary spot by John’s bed, garbed in his customary coat and scarf, waiting for John to return from physical therapy. A nurse wheels him into the room in a wheelchair, but John struggles out of it as soon as they’re through the door and walks himself—shakily—to the bed. Sherlock helps him clamber in.

“Your coat,” John says, eyeing him.

“Present from Mycroft." 

“New?”

“Of course not. He managed to retrieve it from the hospital staff and have it cleaned and repaired. Buying a new one wouldn’t have been nearly as impressive, and Mycroft can’t waste an opportunity to show off.”

“He missed a spot.” John’s fingers brush across a small hole in the grey wool, just below Sherlock’s heart.

“I asked him to leave it.”

John looks up at him, his hand still poised over Sherlock’s chest, and Sherlock’s pulse quickens just a touch. John hasn’t asked to hold his hand since his first week in hospital, and they still haven’t spoken about anything that happened before…well, before.

Sherlock pretends it’s not interesting, the way John is almost touching him. “The doctor says you’ll be able to go home soon,” he says.

John’s hand falls back to his side, his lips pursing. His right hand begins to tremble a bit, and he balls it into a fist in his lap. “Home,” he repeats. He opens and closes his mouth several times, deciding how to phrase the next bit. When he speaks, his voice is straining for indifference, but his hand shakes a little harder than before. “And where is that, exactly?”

“That’s up to you, I suppose.” John nods and studies the blanket. “Of course,” Sherlock adds, “Mrs. Hudson would probably appreciate if there was someone in 221B who didn’t mind doing the washing up. I’m sure you're aware, she is not—”

“A housekeeper, yes, I think she mentioned.” John smiles faintly, and his eyes find Sherlock’s. “I’d like that,” he says softly. Then, clearing his throat a bit: “I mean, not the washing up bit. You’re an absolute nightmare to clean up after, you know that? Chemical burns in the carpet, the whole kitchen turned into a biohazard zone, and God knows it’d kill you to do the hoovering once in a while, lazy posh bastard. Christ, there’s probably still Chinese food on the sitting room—”

Sherlock’s heart wrenches to a stop as John cuts himself off. For a long while, neither one of them say anything.

“John…”

“No, I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have—” 

“It’s fine.”

“I mean, we don’t have to talk about—”

“No,” Sherlock agrees, too quickly, giving away the lie. If it was just sex, this would be easy. _We slept together, John. Get over it. It doesn’t change anything._   But that isn’t even the half of it, and this other bit, the thing with his heart and the feathers, that bit is next to impossible to say out loud.

“He told me,” John says, breaking the silence, and Sherlock blinks as he tries to follow the shift in subject. “Moran,” John explains. “He told me why you did it.”

“Oh.” He can’t pretend like that’s not disappointing—it was his to tell, after all—but he’s more concerned with watching John’s face.

“I didn’t—Sherlock, Christ, I’m sorry.”

Irritation wins out over awkwardness, and Sherlock blurts, “For _what_ , John? You’re really terribly imprecise sometimes. It’s confusing.”

John laughs, a bit incredulously. “It’s just… after...” A flush is rising from his neck, spreading to his cheeks, and he can’t seem to meet Sherlock’s gaze, settling for addressing the bullet hole in his coat. His words are a jumble, dancing around what he wants to say in fine English form, and Sherlock has to sort them carefully to parse out his meaning. “Not about…well, yeah, no, about that too. But I just…when you left, Sherlock…when I thought it was just part of the game…” Finally, he drags his eyes up to Sherlock’s face. “It wasn’t though,” he says.

“You thought I might do it again.” Sherlock’s eyes are flicking back and forth as he reviews John’s words in his mind, turning them over, looking for what he isn’t saying.

John’s gesture is half-nod, half-shrug.

“John, I wouldn’t—”

“No, I know _now_. But God, even with good reason—the _best_  reason, Sherlock, really—even then, you _might_  do it again. If you thought it was necessary.”

Sherlock thinks this over. Nods, conceding the point. 

“I don’t know how…” John begins, but can’t finish, his hands flapping in front of him as if he can pull the words out of the air.

Sherlock makes his spine straight, clamping down on the feathery thing in his chest. “It’s fine, John. I won’t pretend like I’m a good investment. Not in this area, at least.”

John’s head swivels back to him, his brows pinching a wrinkle in his forehead. “No,” he agrees. “A terrible investment.” The feathery thing shivers, curling in on itself.

Then John laughs. “Then again, as you’re so fond of pointing out, I _am_ an idiot.”

Sherlock studies him, wary. “Often, yes,” he says, mostly just to say _something_.

“If I asked you to kiss me,” John says abruptly, “would you do it?”

Sherlock balks, searching his face for signs that this is a trap, a test. The fluttering in his chest is worrisome, distracting, like a thousand palpitations happening simultaneously in his heart. “I…Yes. I…I mean, if you asked.”

“Good,” says John, and his fingers are back, trailing over the bullet hole before fisting in his coat. He pulls, and Sherlock has no choice but to lean into him. “Kiss me,” he commands.

“That’s not asking, John, that’s tell—mmmf!” John interrupts in the best possible way, his lips stealing Sherlock’s words and turning them into shapeless little hums of appreciation, of disbelief. The rush of chemicals is immediate, and Sherlock can’t deny the physiology of _that_ , at least—but his heart is pounding louder than it has any right to do, pounding as if they are half-dressed and pawing at each other in the dark instead of fully clothed and exchanging mostly chaste kisses in a hospital room.

Mostly chaste, because John is not as bold without the alcohol to bolster him, but he’s full of cautious curiosity, his tongue occasionally darting out to explore Sherlock’s mouth, lips curling against him when Sherlock moans just a little, deep in his throat.

Sherlock’s hands are moving of their own accord, his body, so often ignored in favour of his brain, insisting that it can handle this entirely on its own. His hand finds the back of John’s head and holds him still, his thumb stroking idly through the doctor’s hair. 

It’s only seconds. Ten and a half seconds, precisely. But when they pull away, they are something different, something they’ve maybe been for a while, or are maybe just becoming: like a solute dissolving in a solvent, Sherlock can’t point to the exact moment where they ceased being one thing and became another, he can only say that once they were separate and now they are unified, sharing the same space, still themselves, but part of something new together.

He smiles a bit and kisses him again.

***


	13. This Is Love

_This is why we do it, this is worth the pain_  
_This is why we fall down and get back up again_  
_This is where the heart lies, this is from above_  
_Love is this, this is love._  
_____________________________________________________________________________________________________________

“What in heaven’s name is this mess on the stove?”

John looks up from his laptop as Mrs. Hudson appears in the kitchen doorway.

Sherlock, lying on the sofa with his fingers steepled at his lips, answers without opening his eyes: “An experiment. I’m testing how changes in temperature affect the texture of cartilage.”

“Pardon? What _is_ it?”

“It’s mostly ears.”

Mrs. Hudson gives a disgusted little squeak and throws up her hands. “You’d best mend quickly, John dear. I’m getting too old for this.”

“You can leave it,” John replies. “I’ll use the pot to make him dinner later.” Sherlock glares at him and John pretends not to see.

“You sure you’re up for that?” the landlady asks. “I’ll not have you overdoing yourself.”

John adjusts the cushion behind his back. “I could do with some getting up and about, actually. ‘The Return of Sherlock Holmes’ is turning out to be less a blog entry and more a novella.”

“I don’t see why it has to be anything at all,” says Sherlock from the sofa.

“We’ve been through this. If you ever want to work anything except Lestrade’s cold case files, you have to let people know you’re back in business.”

“Oh, yes. Dear Mr. Holmes, please find my poor kitty. Mr. Holmes, I’ve forgotten my computer password. Riveting.”

“Okay, granted, the computer password bloke was a moron. But not every case needs to be cloak and dagger. I’m sure a nice murder will turn up sooner or later.”

“You’re only saying that to shut me up.”

John smiles and stretches. “Not one of your more impressive deductions.”

***

Dinner is not an impressive affair: beans on toast for John (made in a clean saucepan, despite his threats) and plain toast with tea for Sherlock, who downs the tea in one go and leaves the toast untouched. Frugal though it is, John is happy to be making it himself; the first few weeks home saw Mrs. Hudson waiting on them hand and foot until both men felt like screaming.

After dinner, John is sore, and his right hand is starting to act up. The tremors are vastly improved, but after a full day of typing, his hands are tired. He leaves Sherlock on the sofa, lost in thought, and heads down the corridor to grab a shower. 

He stands under the water, breathing in the warm, damp air and resting his head against the tiled wall. In the weeks since he’s been home, it’s been life as usual—or as close to usual as things ever are around Sherlock. On occasion, John will catch Sherlock staring at him, and a few times his touch lingers longer than usual when he asks John to hand him something.

And there was the one night watching telly, when Sherlock, apropos of nothing, leaned over and kissed him before stretching out on the sofa with his head in John’s lap. The odd mixture of embarrassment and excitement that shot through John melted into a haze of contentment, and he ran his hand through Sherlock’s hair until he fell asleep.

He awoke in the small hours of the morning to find Sherlock gone to bed, and somewhat reluctantly climbed the stairs to his own room. They had tried sharing a bed when he first arrived back at the flat, but Sherlock, when he actually slept, wound himself so tightly around John that his injured lungs struggled for breath, and after two or three nights of this they agreed such things would have to wait until he was better healed.

Since then, it’s been only touches and glances, and John finds himself both frightened and frustrated. He’s used to fighting off the odd spike of inappropriate interest when he looks too long at the graceful neck, the elegant hands, the full lips—if he’s honest with himself, he was fighting those thoughts even before Sherlock left. But now he knows what those lips are capable of—Christ, he _wants_. And he’s terrified of wanting, of craving things he never gave a thought to before, and even more terrified that he might not be terribly _good_ at those things. God knows he can’t rely on liquid courage every time they—

“The parrot, John!”

The shower curtain is ripped open, and Sherlock stands before him, looking triumphant.

“Jesus, what—!”

“Mr. Milliner’s parrot.” 

“No, I mean what the hell are you doing in here?” John grabs for the shower curtain, wrapping it around himself as best he can.

Sherlock’s brow knits in confusion. “I’m telling you the solution to the case. I’ve figured it out.”

“Don’t play stupid with me, Sherlock. Why do you need to tell me _now_? In the bloody _shower_?”

Sherlock's eyes widen, his tone the same he might use with a particularly dense child. “Because _now_ is when I figured it out and the _shower_ is where you are. You needn’t be so prudish, John, it’s nothing I haven’t seen before.”

John takes a moment to catch his breath. Yes, Sherlock does make a certain kind of sense. Not regular-person sense, of course, but Sherlock-sense, at least. “It’s still a bit alarming,” he finally says. “You could at least knock.”

“Knocking implies that I want to know if I can come in, which implies there’s a possibility you don’t _want_ me to come in. Do you not want me to come in?”

John just stares at him, incredulous. “I want…oh, sod it, _fine_. What’ve you found then?”

“Mr. Milliner’s alibi—the landlord said he heard him in the downstairs flat that evening. But it wasn’t Mr. Milliner, it was his parrot, which means Milliner hasn’t got an alibi.” 

“But hang on, he hasn’t got a parrot either.” 

“Well of course he had to get rid of it, it would have spoiled the whole thing. It’ll be buried in the garden, just under the plum tree in the west corner.”

“What, still? The case is eight years old now.”

Sherlock makes a dismissive noise. “Doesn’t matter, I suppose. Point is, I’ve solved it.”

“Yes, well, well done, you.”

Sherlock just stands there, hands on his hips, still flush with victory. John clears his throat.

“Anything else you need?”

“How are you feeling, John?” It takes John a moment to realise this is an entirely inappropriate response to his question. He blinks at the change of direction, letting irritation mask his discomfort.

“Christ, Sherlock, can’t this wait until—”

“Of course it can." And then, as if he’s just said the opposite, he repeats, “How are you feeling?”

A number of responses spring to mind. Vulnerable, exhausted, frustrated—in so many more ways than one. “A bit annoyed, actually,” he says. Sarcasm is safer, always safer.

“No, I mean your chest.” Long fingers dart out, brushing across damp skin, and John nearly flinches away out of sheer reflex. Sherlock’s thumb underscores the neat little scar just to the left of his sternum—neat by comparison, anyway, to the mess the higher calibre bullet made of his shoulder.

“Breathing all right?” the detective asks. “Not too much pain?” 

“Breathing…fine.” Which sounds like a lie because it is, but that’s nothing to do with his injury and everything to do with Sherlock’s hands on his bare skin. Damn the man and his passing acquaintance with boundaries.

“Really?” One posh eyebrow arches sceptically. “Because you look a bit flushed.”

“A bit—? Jesus, Sherlock.”

“You needn’t be angry. I just want to be sure you’re well.”

“And you have to know _now_ , do you?” 

“I thought it would be courteous to ask before...”

John looks up at him, leaving it to Sherlock to read the question on his face. Sherlock doesn’t disappoint. His hand slides up John’s chest, the shower spray soaking the sleeve of his shirt as his fingers curl into the damp strands of hair at the base of John’s neck. John’s hand is trembling in earnest now, starting to lose its grip on the curtain.

“You’re shaking, John.” Now he can hear the teasing note in Sherlock’s voice. “Sure you’re not overdoing it?”

“What exactly has gotten into you?” John fights the urge to cough; the breathiness in his tone is not exactly dashing. Sherlock’s face is close—too close, and not nearly close enough. John shivers in spite of the warm water.

“I solved the case,” Sherlock sighs, in that way he saves for when John is being especially ordinary. “Aren’t you going to congratulate me?”

“I said already. It was very well done.”

Sherlock leans in a bit more, stray droplets clinging to his lashes, to the curls framing his face. “It was, wasn’t it? Very clever of me,” he murmurs.

“Yes,” John agrees, trying not to look at Sherlock’s lips. “Brilliant.”  Sherlock hums appreciatively and presses a kiss against John’s brow. 

John chuckles a bit, still shaky, but amused.  “Oh, that’s the way it is, then?”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“Hmm. So if I said you were fantastic…?” Sherlock’s fingers tighten in John’s hair as his lips brush across his cheek. “Marvellous?” Sherlock kisses his jaw. “Amazing.” The last one is nearly a whisper, and to be honest, John’s a bit surprised he has the breath left for even that. Then Sherlock’s lips are on his, and Christ, breathing is awfully overrated anyway.

Sherlock kisses him slowly, deliberately, his hand steadying him even as his lips work to take him apart. It is everything John has been missing, because God, it’s been weeks and weeks, and invalid or not, he’s not a machine, and suddenly soft and slow is not enough anymore, and John’s hands drop the shower curtain completely in favour of clutching at Sherlock’s arms. 

He opens his mouth, deepening the kiss greedily, and Sherlock follows, leaning into him until the water is streaming over both of them, running in rivulets down their faces and into their joined mouths. John’s fingers clench around skin and bone and sopping fabric, and Jesus God, why is the man still dressed?

“Right.” John pulls back, flushed and panting. “Either you’re coming in or I’m getting out.”

Sherlock, the great regal git, manages to look mostly composed despite being half soaked. He reaches down, grasping John’s shaking right hand in his own. “Out, I should think. If that gets any worse…you’re just now well enough for me to do this. I’m not risking you falling and injuring yourself all over again.”

“Just now well enough? Planning this for some time, were you?”

The look Sherlock offers him is half condescending patience and half raw desire, and the heat of it slithers over John’s skin and pools deep in his belly. He swallows hard, because yes, Sherlock has been planning this, and that means Sherlock has been imagining…has been thinking about…Christ.

Sherlock's soaked shirt clings to him, and he is all angles and hard planes where John is used to handling curves, and it throws him a little, still, how his mouth goes dry when the shirt pulls, revealing a sudden expanse of pale collarbone.

“God,” he whispers, his voice hoarse, his left hand fumbling blindly behind him to turn off the taps.

“My bedroom,” Sherlock says, and hands him a towel.

***

Sherlock’s heart is racing. He has to tear himself away from John, slow himself down, or this isn’t going to last long at all. He makes his way down the corridor, shedding his wet shirt as he goes, his fingers shaking a little as he works his trousers off. These he drops just inside his bedroom door, pausing to lean against the frame, taking deep breaths.

Truth be told, he’s a little disappointed at having to leave the shower—John is, after all, very naked and very wet, and the thought of them being very naked and very wet _together_ is doing really terrible things to his cognitive processes, likely due to the sudden loss of blood flow in his frontal cortex.

Pleasant as the thought is, he doesn’t like the loss of control, the sheer power John has over him, and God, when did _that_ happen? This is the cost, he decides. When one becomes all brain, one is doomed to find one’s heart, quite by accident, in someone else’s pocket. Which is horribly inconvenient, and makes him feel helpless besides, and he shoves that mess aside because John is behind him, turning him, taking him in his arms, and there’s quite an impressive amount of nudity demanding his immediate attention.

John is half hard already, and at the sight of it, the blood in Sherlock’s body races to redistribute itself so quickly that he has to hold on to John to stay standing. He knows that in terms of facial symmetry, the golden ratio, all these mathematical ways in which humanity perceives beauty, he knows that by these standards, he is at least moderately attractive—so why is it so endlessly, mindlessly flattering to find that John _is_ attracted? But enough, that’s thought again, and he needs less thinking and more—yes, _hands_ , God, as John grips his buttocks to pull him closer, and Sherlock realises he’s still wearing his pants and socks. 

Long toes make quick work of the socks, although it takes a bit of manoeuvring that makes John laugh— “What on earth are you doing?” “Oh, shut _up_.”—then he reaches for his pants and find John’s hands there already.

John’s lips quirk upward in a half smile as he hooks his fingers into the waistband and tugs. Sherlock’s legs tangle in the garment and he reels a bit, grasping at John, who only grins larger and gives him a gentle shove, toppling him to the bed.

Sherlock lets himself fall, and John follows him down, arms trapping him, knees on either side of his thighs. Sherlock curls one hand around to stroke John’s arm, letting the fingers of his other hand map the constellation of scars on his chest. His shoulder—the wound that broke him, and the wound that brought him to Sherlock. His fingers linger longer over his ribs, and John’s breath catches as he explores the scar—not pain, but a memory of pain, and damned if he doesn’t know what that’s like. John’s scars are etched into his skin, everything on display. Sherlock’s scars are better hidden, but his breath catches the same way when John’s eyes find his and hold them.

“Alright?” John asks.

Sherlock drops both hands, letting John find them, pin them to the mattress, long, elegant fingers knotted through shorter, utilitarian ones. “Kiss me,” he says, and he still reads uncertainty in John’s face, but there’s determination, too, and loyalty, and something else that makes Sherlock wonder what his own face must look like right now.

“Yeah,” John murmurs, and leans down to him. Hesitant lips find his, cling to them, until they are not hesitant anymore and John nips at his lower lip, kissing it softly to take away the sting, letting his tongue slide against Sherlock’s—not a battle but a dance. Kissing John is like finding his way around his room in the dark; it’s easy, it’s instinct—it already feels like home.

“God,” he says, and has to swallow, because that’s a whole different fear, but one that’s much warmer, one that doesn’t hold him back but pushes him forward. _Not fear_ , his brain tries to say. _Fear is a paralytic. But that other thing_ …

“Better?” John asks, and he’s smiling, but his eyes are still worried.

“I just…” Sherlock’s hands find his head, thumbs stroking at his jaw line, and he wonders if John can see it, this little home he’s carved out right in the centre of Sherlock’s being. “You. You’re amazing.”

John blushes. “I haven’t actually done anything yet.”

“No, I mean…God, John.”

Now John laughs, leaning down to kiss him again. “I know what you mean.” His lips are drifting, grazing across Sherlock’s neck, and _that_ is rather nice. “I really…”—lower now, brushing over a nipple, and _hell_ , that’s a bit better than nice—“…really do.”

John is still moving, and Sherlock shifts upward on the bed unconsciously, giving him room to climb up. John kisses a line down his stomach, and he’s so lost in it, in just feeling safe with someone for once, that he jumps a little as John’s lips press into the dip just above his hip, his erection bumping against John's throat. 

“John—!” 

“Shhhh.” Another kiss, lower, and God, he must feel the way his pulse is pounding. 

“You don’t have to,” Sherlock gasps. “John, I don’t expect…” 

“If sex was about expecting, Sherlock, it’d be no fun at all. And since I can’t say I have any idea what I’m doing…well, I expect we’ll both be surprised.”

He is smiling, but his left arm is shaking a bit now, too—might be tremors, but combined with the wavering grin and flush at his neck—no, he’s nervous, and somehow knowing that John even half as terrified as he is puts Sherlock a bit at ease. 

“If you’re thinking you’ll fall short, it’s not possible.”

John’s right hand moving over his thigh, John’s breath against his cock, and God, what a sight that is, John Watson between his legs. John raises an eyebrow, questioning.

“I just…” It’s Sherlock’s turn to blush. “I’ve no basis for comparison. Insufficient data means I’d be unable to make an accurate judgement of your prowess.”

The nervousness fades from John’s face, replaced with more familiar anger. “Sorry,” he says. “You mean you’ve never had…?”

Sherlock looks away from him. “Victor didn’t like to,” he says quietly.

“Jesus. You know, far be it from me to speak ill of the dead, but Victor was a bit of a bastard.”

Sherlock can’t help it. He laughs a bit at that. And then right in the middle of his laugh, he moans instead, because _hell_ , that is John’s _tongue_ on his cock, and it’s warm and soft and God, no _wonder_ everyone seems to enjoy this so much, it must be a fair sensory representation of— _Oh, good Christ_.

John’s fingers wrap around the base of his shaft, and thought abandons him. 

***

John traces his tongue experimentally over the head of Sherlock’s cock, grinning through his nerves as Sherlock gasps above him. Admittedly, it’s nowhere he ever thought he’d be, his head between another man’s legs, but then, since when has anything with Sherlock been what he’d thought? And now he’s here—he thought it might feel demeaning, submissive, but instead he feels suddenly powerful, the way Sherlock is shivering beneath him.

Sherlock’s scent is all around him here, not just the smoke and the expensive shampoo, but something heavy, dark, undeniably male and yet overwhelmingly attractive, and John stops questioning, because alright, fine, this is part of him, and as long as that means Sherlock is part of him, that’s all fine.

His right hand steadies a bit, and he licks again, tasting a bitter trace of pre-come that, God, shouldn’t be so fantastic, but the thought of Sherlock wanting him, hard and leaking for _him_ —the spike of arousal at the idea goes straight through him, and John has to give himself a couple of firm strokes to keep himself grounded.

He lets his tongue explore, his hand working Sherlock’s shaft in an achingly slow rhythm, trying to listen to Sherlock’s verbal cues, trying to learn him, and he’ll never be as good at this as Sherlock himself, but when he presses his nose into the soft skin where Sherlock’s leg joins his torso, his tongue flicking over one testicle before gently pulling it into his mouth, he’s rewarded with demanding fingers suddenly in his hair, and Sherlock’s strangled cry above him:

“Christ, John! Just do it!”

So he does. He lays his tongue flat against the underside of Sherlock’s cock and lets his head sink down as far as he can manage, working slowly to avoid gagging himself.

Fingers tighten in his hair, but Sherlock lets him set the pace for now, and John lets his tongue move, testing, thinking of what he likes and trying to emulate that.

He presses his tongue against the head of Sherlock’s cock, hollowing his cheeks a bit, and—“God, _please_ ,” begs Sherlock. John laughs a little, just a huff of breath through his nose, and with some effort manages to match the rhythm of his hand and mouth, keeping his grip loose and letting his tongue do the work. Sherlock sucks in a breath between his teeth, his hips rising up off the mattress to meet each stroke.

“J—John…” His name on Sherlock’s lips, broken and desperate, and Christ, it’s never sounded better. He lets his hand fall, his fingers tracing over narrow hips, clutching at muscle and flesh. Sherlock’s hand on his head is more insistent, his thrusts more erratic.

“John, God, I might—”

John is focused on his work, hearing Sherlock but not really listening, his head sinking deeper, taking more of him on each stroke until—

“Stop!” Sherlock’s fingers grip his hair painfully, holding him still, and John pulls off with an obscene, wet little sound that ought to be embarrassing, but instead is rather satisfying. He looks up at Sherlock, his eyes watering.

“Hell, John, you’ll have me finished if you’re not careful.”

He presses a lazy kiss to the inside of Sherlock’s thigh. “Thought that was rather the point.”

“Not yet. Come here.” Sherlock’s hands guide him back up to his face, kissing him, moaning into his mouth when John’s tongue meets his.

“God,” Sherlock sighs. “You taste—”

“Sorry, is it—?”

“No, Christ. It’s fantastic." 

“Said the pathological narcissist.” John kisses him again, laughing.

Sherlock growls at him in response, pulling him closer, long, dextrous fingers stroking across his thighs, digging into the flesh hard enough to bruise. John barely feels it, his cock pulsing desperately, twitching toward the contact, tired of being ignored—but Sherlock just leans into him, his mouth finding John’s neck and latching on.

“God, Sherlock.” The name comes out in a long sigh, ruffling through dark curls, and John doesn’t know what he wants, he just _wants_ , so badly it hurts. “ _Please_.”

Sherlock is still pushing forward, until John has to sit back on his heels, which seems to suit Sherlock just fine; he immediately wraps his legs around John’s waist, his long, thin frame pressed against him, shoulder to hip, his arms snaking around John’s neck, and God, the sudden friction against his cock has John absolutely _writhing_ , rutting helplessly against Sherlock’s thighs, his arse, his _anything_.

“John,” Sherlock says into his neck, his breath a damp heat against his shoulder, “I want—”

By way of finishing his sentence, he grinds down into John’s lap. John’s vision blurs, and he leans his head against Sherlock's chest, suddenly dizzy.

“Really?” John asks, and the word is small and hitched, like he is thirteen again and in awe that Lucy Morgan is letting him touch her breasts behind the garden shed. He coughs, remembers that he is just this side of forty, and made of sterner stuff than this, and he can keep it together, _has_ to keep it together, because this is Sherlock Holmes, this is his best friend, this is…fucking Jesus, he may as well admit it, the _love of his life_.

The realisation—except it’s not a realisation is it? It’s that thing just at the edge of sight, glittering against a backdrop of almost-touches and enigmatic glances and John’s really absurd willingness to put bullets into people who so much as think about hurting Sherlock. He’s not discovering that he loves Sherlock Holmes. He’s just finding the vocabulary for it.  

It settles him, stills him, makes him feel more himself than he’s felt in ages. “I mean,” he says, firmer now, “you’re sure?" 

Sherlock just presses his lips together and rotates his hips, aligning himself over John’s cock before grinding down again. John's whole body shudders, because Christ, yes, he wants it too, more than maybe he wants to breathe.

“Yeah, okay,” he whispers, kissing Sherlock’s chest because he can’t move to kiss him anywhere else just at the moment.

But Sherlock has other ideas, slipping out of John’s arms, fumbling for the bedside table, and what is he—oh. He returns with a bottle of lube, handing it to John.

“You’ll have to stretch me,” he says, straightforward. John wishes his hands would stop shaking.

“What about...” He pauses. Tries again, because Christ, he’s an _adult_. “Condoms?”

Sherlock’s mouth pulls to one side. “Not strictly necessary.”

“Sherlock…”

Sherlock folds his arms across his chest. “I haven’t had anyone since Victor, and Mycroft made sure I was tested for everything from HIV to diabetes after my foray into recreational pharmaceuticals.”

John blinks at that, but doesn’t let it derail him. “Right, and me?” 

“I’ve seen your medical records, remember? You were tested just after you started seeing—” He stops, and John supposes he should be grateful that he’s keeping Mary’s name out of their bedroom. 

Jesus. _Their_ bedroom. Is it?

The whole question of condoms suddenly seems ridiculous, and John knows it isn’t, but at the same time—

“I trust you,” he says. _I’m too far gone not to do_ , he doesn’t add.

Sherlock uncrosses his arms and crawls back to him, all pale skin and lean muscle, and God, never mind all this, he just wants to touch him. He pops the cap open, working lube over his fingers, letting his right arm slip around Sherlock’s slim waist, guiding him backward onto the mattress. He kisses him again. “Tell me,” John says, his hand between Sherlock’s thighs, stroking him back to full hardness, slick and tantalizing, then letting his hand slip back, finding the sensitive ring of muscle and circling slowly. 

Sherlock’s eyes are bright, seeking John, pupils wide but not wide enough to dull the brilliant green, and John doesn’t look away as he pushes, just enough, sliding the tip of his middle finger inside. Sherlock tenses, and John waits, shifting to press a kiss against his bent knee. “Tell me,” John repeats, and moves his finger just slightly.

“More,” says Sherlock, relaxing around his hand, and it takes half as much pressure this time, John’s finger sliding all the way into him. He pauses again, just for a moment, before pulling back, almost completely out—and then pushing in again.

“God,” Sherlock moans, his hands clenching around the bed sheets.

“Monosyllables already.” John laughs through his nose. “I’m flattered.” 

When Sherlock glares at him, he adds a second finger, and Sherlock’s head falls back onto the blanket, accompanied by a dramatic groan: “God, _John_!”

He is so tight around John’s fingers, and John’s brain is working overtime, already imagining that it’s his cock instead, all that smooth heat, and another spike of arousal bends him nearly double. His rhythm falters as he catches himself on Sherlock’s leg, panting against him, squeezing himself briefly with his free hand and flinching at the contact.

“John?”

“Yeah, a minute. I just…God, you should see yourself.” He recovers enough to resume his rhythm, his hand moving to Sherlock’s chest, fingers splayed over his heart. “Sherlock, Jesus. You’re—”

“John—” 

“—bloody _gorgeous_.”

“—another, please, God—”

And John obeys, because what else would he do? Three fingers now, and Sherlock is fucking himself down against John’s hand, his hips meeting the thrusts, and John makes the mistake of looking, and oh _Christ—_ the moan that escapes him is almost agonised in its need.

“Yes, John. Now,” says Sherlock, as if John has used actual words—but then, Sherlock can read…oh, bloody well _everything_ , and John’s whole _being_ is want; Sherlock can’t help but see it.

He lets his fingers slip out of Sherlock, reaching for the lube again, slicking his shaft as best he can with shaking hands. Sherlock moves—flipping over, John realises, and his arm shoots out to catch him, gripping his shoulder and pushing him back down.

“No,” he says. When Sherlock opens his mouth, presumably to protest, John just says, “I need to see you.”

Sherlock just looks at him for what feels like an eternity, but is probably only seconds. Then he slides down to the edge of the bed, forcing John to back up with him, until John is half standing, half leaning against the mattress, Sherlock’s legs twining around his waist.

John grips his shaft with one hand, aligning himself with Sherlock’s opening, letting his cock rub against him until Sherlock’s hips begin to move of their own accord.

“John, _oh_. Oh, God. _Please_." 

Sherlock’s legs pull him closer, and John steadies himself with one hand on the mattress. He pushes forward slowly, holding his breath as he slides, millimetre by agonising millimetre, into Sherlock, until he feels the tight ring of muscle close over the head of his cock. He stops, breathing hard, and God, this may kill him, but he’s not sure he minds—the pressure, the heat of him…John wants to bury himself inside him, but he makes himself look up.

Sherlock is holding his breath, too, a flush staining his chest, spreading up the swan-like neck, darkening the pale cheeks. His eyes are lidded, heavy, but fixed on John, his bottom lip caught between his teeth. His hands grasp at the sheets, flailing helplessly. He nods at John—for once, it seems, beyond words.

John doesn’t need to be told twice. He hooks one arm under one of Sherlock’s knees, hitching it higher, and lets go of himself to grip Sherlock’s hip with the other. Then he rolls his hips, pulling Sherlock onto him even as Sherlock pushes himself down, and _oh fucking hell that is just_ —

***

— _perfect_.

That’s how it feels to have John inside him. John pulls back, sliding almost completely out before pushing back in, deeper this time. Sherlock bites back a moan, then wonders why he’s even bothering, and on the next stroke, he lets his back arch as he cries out. A handful of strokes like this, as John pushes and Sherlock stretches around him, and then— _there._ John is fully seated, pausing a moment, and Sherlock can see the pulse fluttering in his neck, God, feel it inside him, even, and he knows John is close already, trying to calm himself, to make it last. 

Sherlock snakes his hands up John’s arms, his mouth craning upward, seeking John’s. John meets him halfway, his kiss stuttering around a ragged breath. 

“Sherlock,” he whispers, and the word is not a name anymore, but a benediction. “You feel amazing. Jesus—you _are_. Just, God…amazing.” 

Sherlock kisses him again, on his mouth, his shoulder, as John straightens again. Unable to wait any longer, he starts to move in earnest, finding a rhythm that matches their galloping pulses, and Sherlock is there with him, holding onto him because if he doesn’t, he may just come apart at last.  

Sex is an impulse, one unnecessary for survival, and Sherlock has never much understood the way others seek it out, crave it, demand it. He indulged the drive with Victor because for a time he thought he could be like those others, and when he realised he was something else, something set apart, he gave up on the pursuit. 

But John inside him, John in his arms and against his lips and _oh, yes,_ _right there_ —John is set apart as well. John, who can translate Sherlock for the world, who stands with him even when he’s impossible, who will kill for him, who will— _God, never again_ —die for him—sex with John is not just a physiological want. John in him is just another part of himself; without him, Sherlock is not _Sherlock_ anymore. 

It’s illogical and messy and full of enough sentiment to choke on, but Sherlock thinks he could never love anything as much as this: the way John sinks into him like he belongs, the way Sherlock’s body curves around him, toward him, because John is a centre and Sherlock is a satellite, and without his pull, Sherlock is lost.

John shifts his position, brushing against Sherlock’s prostate as he does, and Sherlock bucks against him.

“God, John—!” 

Another thrust, and Sherlock is nearly off the mattress, holding onto him, and yes, oh Jesus, he is suddenly so close, his cock caught between them and straining for friction, his vision pale at the edges as he hovers on the brink.

“Touch me,” he begs.

“Yes,” and John does. His grip is loose, his stroke uneven as he keeps thrusting, but it’s enough, and Sherlock wraps his arms around him as they move. It’s seconds only, and then Sherlock goes rigid, back arching, and he is coming with one long cry that ends in John’s name, spilling over John’s hand, John's grip smearing it between them.

“Sherlock, _fuck_.” John says the word with such intensity that it draws Sherlock from his haze, and he opens his eyes in time to see John's pupils blow wide, and John releases Sherlock’s cock to hold onto his hips instead, his thrusts shallow now, erratic. 

“I’m going to—”

“Please,” Sherlock says, fingers digging into John’s buttocks. “God, just _please_.”

Two more thrusts and John is there, pushing up into him, his head falling forward, burying his face in Sherlock’s neck, and Sherlock wants to see, to look in John’s eyes as he comes apart, but he can feel his groan vibrating down his carotid artery, and that’s almost as perfect. John’s orgasm shudders through him, cutting off the groan with a sort of strangled, choking cry that is part curse and part Sherlock’s name, discordant and harsh and just _beautiful_.

John collapses into him, sprawling across his chest, his hips still moving lazily, absently. Sherlock holds him there, pressing John’s head against his jackrabbit heart, stroking his back as he struggles to catch his breath.

“Alright?” he mumbles after a moment.

John shifts on top of him, kissing his chest, his mouth, and hell, that kiss is almost sweeter than the sex, Sherlock trying not to tremble. John means well, he cares for him, but the great feathery non-paralysing _feeling_ in Sherlock’s chest wants more than that, and Sherlock is afraid to hope for it.

“Alright?” John echoes. “Jesus, a bit better than that.”

He rolls off of him, flopping onto his back beside him, idly scratching at his chest. Sherlock sits up, pulling his knees up to his chest. John stares at the ceiling, a slightly goofy grin on his face.

“Reckon I’ll have to let Angelo call me your date now,” he says, and he’s smiling, but Sherlock’s heart manages an extra four beats in quick succession.

“John.” His voice is soft and serious, and John catches it, glancing at him. “You don’t…I know you’re not…you don’t have to tell anyone. I mean, Lestrade knows something, you were hardly subtle with your drug induced hand holding, but we don’t have to...” Sherlock sighs, frustrated to find eloquence quite beyond him at the moment. John is staring at him now, all trace of his smile gone. “I just mean,” Sherlock finishes, “it’s fine if you don’t want others to know.”

“Right,” says John, pushing himself up. He’s leaning toward him, and Sherlock can’t really help it if his eyelids flutter closed for an instant when John’s hand cups his face. “If it’s all the same to you,” John says, and his voice is light, but his eyes are steel, “I think that’s as much your choice as it is mine.”

Sherlock just blinks at him.

“But you ought to know,” continues John, “whether other people know or not, I’m not going anywhere.” 

A lurch, as that winged thing in his chest leaps abruptly. John’s right hand is trembling, his eyes tight with encroaching pain—it’s cost him, this encounter, though he’s trying not to show it—but his eyes are steady, open and honest, and Sherlock dares to believe him.

He leans forward, his face hovering inches away from John’s, his gaze flicking from his eyes to his lips and back again, memorising his face in this moment. 

“Don’t,” he whispers, and John’s fingers thread through his hair. “Don’t go anywhere. Please.” He can’t say it, can’t name that beast lurking behind his heart, but it sneaks out anyway, in his voice, in the gentle kiss he presses against John’s lips.

And John doesn’t say it either, but Sherlock feels it in his touch, that double helix again, the strands of their lives bound together around this something that is life itself, that is bigger than both of them.

When they pull back, Sherlock finds his hand on John’s chest. His thumb strokes idly over the skin there, cataloguing its texture, all the subtle mechanisms of his brain clicking back into place as his body relinquishes its temporary hold over him.

“John,” he says, “I find myself quite in need of a shower.”

John laughs, wincing a bit. “Yeah. I never managed to finish mine. Some conniving bastard fancied he had something better for me to do.”

“I think you’ll agree he was right.” 

“Oh, he’s always right. Doesn’t mean he’s _not_ a conniving bastard.”

Sherlock snorts dismissively. “You’re exhausted and in pain, so I will assume you’re delirious.”

“Assume what you like, but get that shower started. If you wait any longer, you’ll have to carry me in there. I’m knackered.” 

“I don’t remember inviting you,” Sherlock says.

“No,” John agrees. “But I admit, the idea of you wet and naked is almost disturbingly appealing.”

“Well, I suppose we can’t have you showering alone, invalid that you are.”

“Invalid?” It’s John’s turn to snort as he rolls off the bed. “I still manage to wash a pot now and then. What’s your excuse?”

He walks past Sherlock, heading for the bathroom, and Sherlock smiles at his back. “Geniuses don’t wash pots, John.”

John is out the door, calling back, “Apparently they don’t put taps on, either. You coming, then?”

The sound of the shower starting up. Sherlock’s smile widens. “Oh, absolutely.”

***

FIN

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all so much for reading and commenting and kudosing and whatnot. Your support pushed me to finish this, my first Sherlock fic and first multi-chapter fic. It has been so fun! Find me on tumblr @martinsaurus and twitter @thegingerbatch if you feel like saying hello!

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Ad Libitum](https://archiveofourown.org/works/687821) by [thegingerbatch (WendyBird)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/WendyBird/pseuds/thegingerbatch)




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